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Title: The autobiography of Calvin Coolidge
Author: Calvin Coolidge
Release date: August 8, 2025 [eBook #76649]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Cosmopolitan Book Corporation, 1929
Credits: Sean/AB, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CALVIN COOLIDGE ***
_The Autobiography_
OF
CALVIN COOLIDGE
[Illustration: CALVIN COOLIDGE]
_The Autobiography_
OF
CALVIN COOLIDGE
[Illustration: colophon]
_New York_
COSMOPOLITAN BOOK CORPORATION
1929
COPYRIGHT 1929 CALVIN COOLIDGE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
SECOND TRADE EDITION
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY
J. J. LITTLE & IVES CO., NEW YORK
_CONTENTS_
I. SCENES OF MY CHILDHOOD 1
II. SEEKING AN EDUCATION 35
III. THE LAW AND POLITICS 81
IV. IN NATIONAL POLITICS 139
V. ON ENTERING AND LEAVING THE
PRESIDENCY 169
VI. SOME OF THE DUTIES OF THE PRESIDENT 193
VII. WHY I DID NOT CHOOSE TO RUN 237
_ILLUSTRATIONS_
CALVIN COOLIDGE _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
VICTORIA JOSEPHINE (MOOR) COOLIDGE 30
_Mother of Calvin Coolidge_
COLONEL JOHN C. COOLIDGE 48
_Vermont Senate_
CALVIN COOLIDGE 66
_At the Age of Three_
CALVIN COOLIDGE 90
_Aged Seven_
CALVIN COOLIDGE 136
_At Amherst College_
GRACE GOODHUE 190
_Before Her Marriage to Calvin Coolidge_
CALVIN COOLIDGE AND HIS FAMILY 220
_The Day He Became Governor of Massachusetts_
SCENES OF MY CHILDHOOD
_CHAPTER ONE_
SCENES OF MY CHILDHOOD
The town of Plymouth lies on the easterly slope of the Green Mountains,
about twenty miles west of the Connecticut River and somewhat south of
the central part of Vermont. This part of the state is made up of a
series of narrow valleys and high hills, some of which rank as mountains
that must reach an elevation of at least twenty-five hundred feet.
Its westerly boundary is along the summit of the main range to where it
falls off into the watershed of Lake Champlain and the St. Lawrence
River. At one point a little rill comes down a mountain until it strikes
a rock, where it divides, part running north into the Ottauquechee and
part south into the Black River, both of which later turn easterly to
reach the Connecticut.
In its natural state this territory was all covered with evergreen and
hardwood trees. It had large deposits of limestone, occasionally mixed
with marble, and some granite. There were sporadic outcroppings of iron
ore, and the sands of some of the streams showed considerable traces of
gold. The soil was hard and rocky, but when cultivated supported a good
growth of vegetation.
During colonial times this region lay in an unbroken wilderness, until
the coming of the French and Indian War, when a military road was cut
through under the direction of General Amherst, running from
Charlestown, New Hampshire, to Fort Ticonderoga, New York. This line of
march lay through the south part of the town, crossing the Black River
at the head of the two beautiful lakes and running over the hill towards
the valley of the Otter Creek.
When settlers began to come in around the time of the Revolution, the
grandfather of my grandfather, Captain John Coolidge, located a farm
near the height of land westward from the river along this military
road, where he settled in about 1780.
He had served in the Revolutionary army and may have learned of this
region from some of his comrades who had known it in the old French
wars, or who had passed over it in the campaign against Burgoyne, which
culminated at Saratoga.
He had five children and acquired five farms, so that each of his
descendants was provided with a homestead. His oldest son Calvin came
into possession of the one which I now own, where it is said that
Captain John spent his declining years. He lies buried beside his wife
in the little neighborhood cemetery not far distant.
The early settlers of Plymouth appear to have come mostly from
Massachusetts, though some of them had stopped on the way in New
Hampshire. They were English Puritan stock, and their choice of a
habitation stamps them with a courageous pioneering spirit.
Their first buildings were log houses, the remains of which were visible
in some places in my early boyhood, though they had long since been
given over to the sheltering of domestic animals. The town must have
settled up with considerable rapidity, for as early as 1840 it had about
fourteen hundred inhabitants scattered about the valleys and on the
sides of the hills, which the mountains divided into a considerable
number of different neighborhoods, each with a well-developed local
community spirit.
As time went on, much land was cleared of forest, very substantial
buildings of wood construction were erected, saw mills and grist mills
were located along the streams, and the sale of lumber and lime, farm
products and domestic animals, brought considerable money into the town,
which was laid out for improvements or found its way into the country
store. It was a hard but wholesome life, under which the people suffered
many privations and enjoyed many advantages, without any clear
realization of the existence of either one of them.
They were a hardy self-contained people. Most of them are gone now and
their old homesteads are reverting to the wilderness. They went forth to
conquer where the trees were thicker, the fields larger, and the
problems more difficult. I have seen their descendants scattered all
over the country, especially in the middle west, and as far south as the
Gulf of Mexico and westward to the Pacific slope.
It was into this community that I was born on the 4th day of July, 1872.
My parents then lived in a five room, story and a half cottage attached
to the post office and general store, of which my father was the
proprietor. While they intended to name me for my father, they always
called me Calvin, so the John became discarded.
Our house was well shaded with maple trees and had a yard in front
enclosed with a picket fence, in which grew a mountain ash, a plum tree,
and the customary purple lilac bushes. In the summertime my mother
planted her flower bed there.
Her parents, who were prosperous farmers, lived in the large house
across the road, which had been built for a hotel and still has the old
hall in it where public dances were held in former days and a spacious
corner on the front side known as the bar room, indicating what had been
sold there before my grandfather Moor bought the premises. On an
adjoining farm, about sixty-five rods distant, lived my grandfather and
grandmother Coolidge. Within view were two more collections of farm
buildings, three dwelling houses with their barns, a church, a school
house and a blacksmith shop. A little out of sight dwelt the local
butter tub maker and beyond him the shoemaker.
This locality was known as The Notch, being situated at the head of a
valley in an irregular bowl of hills. The scene was one of much natural
beauty, of which I think the inhabitants had little realization, though
they all loved it because it was their home and were always ready to
contend that it surpassed all the surrounding communities and compared
favorably with any other place on earth.
My sister Abbie was born in the same house in April, 1875. We lived
there until 1876, when the place was bought across the road, which had
about two acres of land with a house and a number of barns and a
blacksmith shop. About it were a considerable number of good apple
trees. I think the price paid was $375. Almost at once the principal
barn was sold for $100, to be moved away. My father was a good trader.
Some repairs were made on the inside, and black walnut furniture was
brought from Boston to furnish the parlor and sitting room. It was a
plain square-sided house with a long ell, to which the horse barn was
soon added. The outside has since been remodeled and the piazza built. A
young woman was always employed to do the house work. Whatever was
needed never failed to be provided.
While in theory I was always urged to work and to save, in practice I
was permitted to do my share of playing and wasting. My playthings often
lay in the road to be run over, and my ball game often interfered with
my filling the wood box. I have been taken out of bed to do penance for
such derelictions.
My father, John Calvin Coolidge, ran the country store. He was
successful. The annual rent of the whole place was $40. I have heard him
say that his merchandise bills were about $10,000 yearly. He had no
other expenses. His profits were about $100 per month on the average, so
he must have sold on a very close margin.
He trusted nearly everybody, but lost a surprisingly small amount.
Sometimes people he had not seen for years would return and pay him the
whole bill.
He went to Boston in the spring and fall to buy goods. He took the
midnight train from Ludlow when they did not have sleeping cars,
arriving in the city early in the morning, which saved him his hotel
bill.
He was a good business man, a very hard worker, and did not like to see
things wasted. He kept the store about thirteen years and sold it to my
mother’s brother, who became a prosperous merchant.
In addition to his business ability my father was very skillful with his
hands. He worked with a carriage maker for a short time when he was
young, and the best buggy he had for twenty years was one he made
himself. He had a complete set of tools, ample to do all kinds of
building and carpenter work. He knew how to lay bricks and was an
excellent stone mason.
Following his sale of the store about the time my grandfather died,
besides running the farm, he opened the old blacksmith shop which stood
upon the place across the road to which we had moved. He hired a
blacksmith at $1 per day, who was a large-framed powerful man with a
black beard, said to be sometimes quarrelsome.
I have seen him unaided throw a refractory horse to the ground when it
objected to being shod. But he was always kind to me, letting me fuss
around the shop, leaving his own row to do three or four hills for me so
that I could more easily keep up with the rest of the men in hoeing
time, or favoring me in some way in the hay field as he helped on the
farm in busy times.
He always pitched the hay on to the ox cart and I raked after. If I was
getting behind he slowed up a little. He was a big-hearted man. I wish I
could see that blacksmith again. The iron work for farm wagons and sleds
was fashioned and put on in the shop, oxen and horses brought there for
shoeing, and metal parts of farm implements often repaired. My father
seemed to like to work in the shop, but did not go there much except
when a difficult piece of work was required, like welding a broken steel
section rod of a mowing machine, which had to be done with great
precision or it would break again.
He kept tools for mending shoes and harnesses and repairing water pipes
and tinware. He knew how to perform all kinds of delicate operations on
domestic animals. The lines he laid out were true and straight, and the
curves regular. The work he did endured.
If there was any physical requirement of country life which he could not
perform, I do not know what it was. From watching him and assisting him,
I gained an intimate knowledge of all this kind of work.
It seems impossible that any man could adequately describe his mother. I
can not describe mine.
On the side of her father, Hiram Dunlap Moor, she was Scotch with a
mixture of Welsh and English. Her mother, Abigail (Franklin) Moor, was
chiefly of the old New England stock. She bore the name of two
Empresses, Victoria Josephine. She was of a very light and fair
complexion with a rich growth of brown hair that had a glint of gold in
it. Her hands and features were regular and finely modeled. The older
people always told me how beautiful she was in her youth.
She was practically an invalid ever after I could remember her, but used
what strength she had in lavish care upon me and my sister, who was
three years younger. There was a touch of mysticism and poetry in her
nature which made her love to gaze at the purple sunsets and watch the
evening stars.
Whatever was grand and beautiful in form and color attracted her. It
seemed as though the rich green tints of the foliage and the blossoms of
the flowers came for her in the springtime, and in the autumn it was for
her that the mountain sides were struck with crimson and with gold.
When she knew that her end was near she called us children to her
bedside, where we knelt down to receive her final parting blessing.
In an hour she was gone. It was her thirty-ninth birthday. I was twelve
years old. We laid her away in the blustering snows of March. The
greatest grief that can come to a boy came to me. Life was never to seem
the same again.
Five years and forty-one years later almost to a day my sister and my
father followed her. It always seemed to me that the boy I lost was her
image. They all rest together on the sheltered hillside among five
generations of the Coolidge family.
My grandfather, Calvin Galusha Coolidge, died when I was six years old.
He was a spare man over six feet tall, of a nature which caused people
to confide in him, and of a character which made him a constant choice
for public office. His mother and her family showed a marked trace of
Indian blood. I never saw her, but he took me one time to see her
sister, his very aged aunt, whom we found sitting in the chimney corner
smoking a clay pipe.
This was so uncommon that I always remembered it. I thought tobacco was
only for men, though I had seen old ladies outside our neighborhood buy
snuff at the store.
He was an expert horseman and loved to raise colts and puppies. He kept
peacocks and other gay-colored fowl and had a yard and garden filled
with scarlet flowers. But he never cared to hunt or fish. He found great
amusement in practical jokes and could entice a man into a nest of bees
and make him think he went there of his own accord.
He and my grandmother brought up as their own children the boy and girl
of his only sister, whose parents died when they were less than two
years old. He made them no charge, but managed their inheritance and
turned it all over to them with the income, besides giving the boy $800
of his own money when he was eighteen years old, the same as he did my
father. He was fond of riding horseback and taught me to ride standing
up behind him. Some of the horses he bred and sold became famous. In his
mind, the only real, respectable way to get a living was from tilling
the soil. He therefore did not exactly approve having his son go into
trade.
In order to tie me to the land, in his last sickness he executed a deed
to me for life of forty acres, called the Lime Kiln lot, on the west
part of his farm, with the remainder to my lineal descendants, thinking
that as I could not sell it, and my creditors could not get it, it would
be necessary for me to cultivate it. He also gave me a mare colt and a
heifer calf, which came of stock that had belonged to his grandfather.
Two days after I was two months old, my father was elected to the state
legislature. By a curious coincidence, when my son was the same age I
was elected to the same office in Massachusetts. He was reelected twice,
the term being two years, and, while he was serving, my grandfather
took my mother and me to visit him at Montpelier.
I think I was three years and four months old, but I always remembered
the experience. Grandfather carried me to the State House and sat me in
the Governor’s chair, which did not impress me so much as a stuffed
catamount that was in the capital museum. That was the first of the
great many journeys which I have since made to legislative halls.
During his last illness he would have me read to him the first chapter
of the Gospel of John, which he had read to his grandfather. I could do
very well until I came to the word “comprehended,” with which I always
had difficulty. On taking the oath as President in 1925, I placed my
hand on that Book of the Bible in memory of my first reading it.
So far as I know, neither he nor any other members of my family ever
entertained any ambitions in my behalf. He evidently wished me to stay
on the land. My own wish was to keep store, as my father had done.
They all taught me to be faithful over a few things. If they had any
idea that such a training might some day make me a ruler over many
things, it was not disclosed to me. It was my father in later years who
wished me to enter the law, but when I finally left home for that
purpose the parting was very hard for him to bear.
The neighborhood around The Notch was made up of people of exemplary
habits. Their speech was clean and their lives were above reproach. They
had no mortgages on their farms. If any debts were contracted they were
promptly paid. Credit was good and there was money in the savings bank.
The break of day saw them stirring. Their industry continued until
twilight. They kept up no church organization, and as there was little
regular preaching the outward manifestation of religion through public
profession had little opportunity, but they were without exception a
people of faith and charity and of good works. They cherished the
teachings of the Bible and sought to live in accordance with its
precepts.
The conduct of the young people was modest and respectful. For most of
the time during my boyhood regular Sunday school classes were held in
the church which my grandmother Coolidge superintended until in her
advanced years she was superseded by my father. She was a constant
reader of the Bible and a devoted member of the church, who daily sought
for divine guidance in prayer.
I stayed with her at the farm much of the time and she had much to do
with shaping the thought of my early years. She had a benign influence
over all who came in contact with her. The Puritan severity of her
convictions was tempered by the sweetness of a womanly charity. There
were none whom she ever knew that had not in some way benefited by her
kindness.
Her maiden name was Sarah Almeda Brewer. When she married my grandfather
she was twenty and he was twenty-eight years old. She was accustomed to
tell me that from his experience and observations he had come to have
great faith in good blood, and that he chose her for his wife not only
because he loved her, but because her family, which he had seen for
three generations, were people of ability and character.
While he would have looked upon rank as only pretense, he looked upon
merit with great respect. His judgment was vindicated by the fact that
more of her kin folks than he could have realized had been and were to
become people of merited distinction.
The prevailing dress in our neighborhood was that of the countryside.
While my father wore a business suit with a white shirt, collar and
cuffs, which he always kept clean, the men generally had colored shirts
and outer garments of brown or blue drilling. But they all had good
clothes for any important occasions.
I was clad in a gingham shirt with overalls in the summer, when I liked
to go barefooted. In the winter these were changed for heavy wool
garments and thick cowhide boots, which lasted a year.
My grandmother Coolidge spun woolen yarn, from which she knitted us
stockings and mittens. I have seen her weave cloth, and when I was ten
years old I had a frock which came from her loom. We had linen sheets
and table cloths and woolen bed blankets, which she had spun and woven
in earlier days. I have some of them now. My grandfather Coolidge wore
a blue woolen frock much of the time, which is a most convenient garment
for that region. It is cut like a shirt, going on over the head, with
flaps that reach to the knees.
When I went to visit the old home in later years I liked to wear the one
he left, with some fine calfskin boots about two sizes too large for me,
which were made for him when he went to the Vermont legislature about
1858. When news pictures began to be taken of me there, I found that
among the public this was generally supposed to be a makeup costume,
which it was not, so I have since been obliged to forego the comfort of
wearing it. In public life it is sometimes necessary in order to appear
really natural to be actually artificial.
Perhaps some glimpse of these pictures may have caused an English writer
to refer to me as a Vermont backwoodsman. I wonder if he describes his
King as a Scotchman when he sees him in kilts.
To those of his country who remember that Burgoyne sent home a dispatch
saying that the Green Mountains were the abode of the most warlike race
on the continent, who hung like a thunder cloud on his left--which was
fully borne out by what they helped to do to him at Bennington and
Saratoga--I presume the term of Vermont backwoodsman still carries the
implication of reproach. But in this country it is an appellation which
from General Ethan Allen to Admiral George Dewey has not been without
some distinction.
While the form of government under which the Plymouth people lived was
that of a republic, it had a strong democratic trend. The smallest unit
was then the school district. Early in my boyhood the women were given a
vote on school questions in both the district and town meetings.
The district meeting was held in the evening at the school house each
year. The officers were chosen and the rate of the school tax was fixed
by popular vote. The board and room of the teacher for two-week periods
was then assigned to the lowest bidders. The rates ran from about fifty
cents each week in the summer to as high as $1.25 in the winter.
The town officers were chosen annually at the March meeting. Here again
the rate of taxes was fixed by popular vote. The bonded debt was rather
large, coming down, as I was told, from expenses during the war and the
costs of reconstructing roads and bridges after the disastrous freshet
of 1869.
The more substantial farmers wanted to raise a large tax to reduce the
debt. I noticed my father did not vote on this subject and I inquired
his reason. He said that while he could afford to pay a high rate, he
did not wish to place so large a burden on those who were less able, and
so was leaving them to make their own decision.
In those days there were about two hundred and fifty qualified voters,
not over twenty-five of which were Democrats, and the rest Republicans.
They had their spirited contests in their elections, but not along party
lines.
One of the patriarchs of the town, who was a Democrat, served many years
as Moderator by unanimous choice. He was a man of sound common sense and
an excellent presiding officer, but without much book learning.
When he read that part of the call for the meeting which recited that it
was to act “on the following questions, _viz._,” he always read it “to
act upon the following questions, _vizley_.” This caused him to be
referred to at times by the irreverent as Old Vizley.
I was accustomed to carry apples and popcorn balls to the town meetings
to sell, mainly because my grandmother said my father had done so when
he was a boy, and I was exceedingly anxious to grow up to be like him.
On the even years in September came the Freemen’s meeting. This was a
state election, at which the town representative to the legislature was
chosen. They also voted for county and state officers and for a
Representative to the Congress, and on each fourth year for Presidential
electors. I attended all of these meetings until I left home and
followed them with interest for many of the succeeding years.
Careful provision was made for the administration of justice through
local authorities. Those charged with petty crimes and misdemeanors were
brought before one of the five Justices of the Peace, who had power to
try and sentence with or without calling a jury. He also had a like
jurisdiction in civil matters of a small amount.
The more important cases, criminal and civil, went to the County Court
which sat in the neighboring town of Woodstock in May and December. My
father was nearly all his life a Constable or a Deputy Sheriff, and
sometimes both, with power to serve civil and criminal process, so that
he arrested those charged with crime and brought them before the Justice
for trial.
Unless it would keep me out of school, he would take me with him when
attending before the local justices or when he went to the opening
session of the County Court. Before him my grandfather had held the same
positions, so that together they were the peace officers most of the
time in our town for nearly seventy-five years.
In addition to this they often settled the estates of deceased persons
and acted as guardian of minors. This business was transacted in the
Probate Court, where I often went.
My father was at times a Justice of the Peace and always had a
commission as notary public. This enabled him to take the acknowledgment
of deeds, which he knew how to draw, and administer oaths necessary to
pension papers which he filled out for old soldiers usually without
charge, or to take affidavits required on any other instruments.
In my youth he was also always engaged in the transaction of all kinds
of town business, being constantly elected for that purpose. He was
painstaking, precise and very accurate, and had such wide experience
that the lawyers of the region knew they could rely on him to serve
papers in difficult cases and make returns that would be upheld by the
courts.
This work gave him such a broad knowledge of the practical side of the
law that people of the neighborhood were constantly seeking his advice,
to which I always listened with great interest. He always counseled them
to resist injustice and avoid unfair dealing, but to keep their
agreements, meet their obligations and observe strict obedience to the
law.
By reason of what I saw and heard in my early life, I came to have a
good working knowledge of the practical side of government. I understood
that it consisted of restraints which the people had imposed upon
themselves in order to promote the common welfare.
As I went about with my father when he collected taxes, I knew that when
taxes were laid some one had to work to earn the money to pay them. I
saw that a public debt was a burden on all the people in a community,
and while it was necessary to meet the needs of a disaster it cost much
in interest and ought to be retired as soon as possible.
After the winter work of laying in a supply of wood had been done, the
farm year began about the first of April with the opening of the
maple-sugar season. This was the most interesting of all the farm
operations to me.
With the coming of the first warm days we broke a road through the deep
snow into the sugar lot, tapped the trees, set the buckets, and brought
the sap to the sugar house, where in a heater and pans it was boiled
down into syrup to be taken to the house for sugaring off. We made eight
hundred to two thousand pounds, according to the season.
After that the fences had to be repaired where they had been broken down
by the snow, the cattle turned out to pasture, and the spring planting
done. Then came sheep-shearing time, which was followed by getting in
the hay, harvesting and threshing of the grain, cutting and husking the
corn, digging the potatoes and picking the apples. Just before
Thanksgiving the poultry had to be dressed for market, and a little
later the fattened hogs were butchered and the meat salted down. Early
in the winter a beef creature was slaughtered.
The work of the farm was done by the oxen, except running the mowing
machine and horse rake. I early learned to drive oxen and used to plow
with them alone when I was twelve years old. Of course, there was the
constant care of the domestic animals, the milking of the cows, and
taking them to and from pasture, which was especially my responsibility.
We had husking bees, apple-paring bees and singing schools in the
winter. There were parties for the young folks and an occasional
dramatic exhibition by local talent. Not far away there were some public
dances, which I was never permitted to attend.
Some time during the summer we usually went to the circus, often rising
by three o’clock so as to get there early. In the autumn we visited the
county fair. The holidays were all celebrated in some fashion.
Of course, the Fourth of July meant a great deal to me, because it was
my birthday. The first one I can remember was when I was four years old.
My father took me fishing in the meadow brook in the morning. I recall
that I fell in the water, after which we had a heavy thundershower, so
that we both came home very wet. Usually there was a picnic celebration
on that day.
Thanksgiving was a feast day for family reunions at the home of the
grandparents. Christmas was a sacrament observed with the exchange of
gifts, when the stockings were hung, and the spruce tree was lighted in
the symbol of Christian faith and love. While there was plenty of hard
work, there was no lack of pleasurable diversion.
When the work was done for the day, it was customary to drop into the
store to get the evening mail and exchange views on topics of interest.
A few times I saw there Attorney General John G. Sargent with his
father, who was a much respected man.
A number of those who came had followed Sheridan, been with Meade at
Gettysburg, and served under Grant, but they seldom volunteered any
information about it. They were not talkative and took their military
service in a matter of fact way, not as anything to brag about but
merely as something they did because it ought to be done.
They drew no class distinctions except towards those who assumed
superior airs. Those they held in contempt. They held strongly to the
doctrine of equality. Whenever the hired man or the hired girl wanted to
go anywhere they were always understood to be entitled to my place in
the wagon, in which case I remained at home. This gave me a very early
training in democratic ideas and impressed upon me very forcibly the
dignity and power, if not the superiority of labor.
It was all a fine atmosphere in which to raise a boy. As I look back on
it I constantly think how clean it was. There was little about it that
was artificial. It was all close to nature and in accordance with the
ways of nature. The streams ran clear. The roads, the woods, the fields,
the people--all were clean. Even when I try to divest it of the halo
which I know always surrounds the past, I am unable to create any other
impression than that it was fresh and clean.
We had some books, but not many. Mother liked poetry and read some
novels. Father had no taste for books, but always took and read a daily
paper. My grandfather Moor read books and papers, so that he was a
well-informed man.
My grandmother Coolidge liked books and besides a daily Chapter in the
Bible read aloud to me “The Rangers or the Tory’s Daughter” and “The
Green Mountain Boys,” which were both stories of the early settlers of
Vermont during the Revolutionary period. She also had two volumes
entitled “Washington and His Generals,” and other biographies which I
read myself at an early age with a great deal of interest.
At home there were numerous law books. In this way I grew up with a
working knowledge of the foundations of my state and nation and a taste
for history.
My education began with a set of blocks which had on them the Roman
numerals and the letters of the alphabet. It is not yet finished. As I
played with
[Illustration:
Allison Spence
VICTORIA JOSEPHINE (MOOR) COOLIDGE
_Mother of Calvin Coolidge, about the time of her marriage_]
them and asked my mother what they were, I came to know them all when I
was three years old. I started to school when I was five.
The little stone school house which had unpainted benches and desks wide
enough to seat two was attended by about twenty-five scholars. Few, if
any, of my teachers reached the standard now required by all public
schools. They qualified by examination before the town superintendent. I
first took this examination and passed it at the age of thirteen and my
sister Abbie passed it and taught a term of school in a neighboring town
when she was twelve years old.
My teachers were young women from neighboring communities, except
sometimes when a man was employed for the winter term. They were all
intelligent, of good character, and interested in their work. I do not
feel that the quality of their instruction was in any way inferior. The
common school subjects were taught, with grammar and United States
history, so that when I was thirteen I had mastered them all and went to
Black River Academy, at Ludlow.
That was one of the greatest events of my life. The packing and
preparation for it required more time and attention than collecting my
belongings in preparation for leaving the White House. I counted the
hours until it was time to go.
My whole outfit went easily into two small handbags, which lay on the
straw in the back of the traverse sleigh beside the fatted calf that was
starting to market. The winter snow lay on the ground. The weather was
well below freezing. But in my eagerness these counted for nothing.
I was going where I would be mostly my own master. I was casting off
what I thought was the drudgery of farm life, symbolized by the cowhide
boots and every-day clothing which I was leaving behind, not realizing
what a relief it would be to return to them in future years. I had on my
best clothes and wore shoes with rubbers, because the village had
sidewalks.
I did not know that there were mental and moral atmospheres more
monotonous and more contaminating than anything in the physical
atmosphere of country life. No one could have made me believe that I
should never be so innocent or so happy again.
As we rounded the brow of the hill the first rays of the morning sun
streamed over our backs and lighted up the glistening snow ahead. I was
perfectly certain that I was traveling out of the darkness into the
light.
We have much speculation over whether the city or the country is the
better place to bring up boys. I am prejudiced in behalf of the country,
but I should have to admit that much depends on the parents and the
surrounding neighborhood. We felt the cold in winter and had many
inconveniences, but we did not mind them because we supposed they were
the inevitable burdens of existence.
It would be hard to imagine better surroundings for the development of a
boy than those which I had. While a wider breadth of training and
knowledge could have been presented to me, there was a daily contact
with many new ideas, and the mind was given sufficient opportunity
thoroughly to digest all that came to it.
Country life does not always have breadth, but it has depth. It is
neither artificial nor superficial, but is kept close to the realities.
While I can think of many pleasures we did not have, and many niceties
of culture with which we were unfamiliar, yet if I had the power to
order my life anew I would not dare to change that period of it. If it
did not afford me the best that there was, it abundantly provided the
best that there was for me.
SEEKING AN EDUCATION
CHAPTER TWO
SEEKING AN EDUCATION
One of the sages of New England is reported to have declared that the
education of a child should begin several generations before it is born.
No doubt it does begin at a much earlier period and we enter life with a
heritage that reaches back through the ages. But we do not choose our
ancestors. When we come into the world the gate of gifts is closed
behind us. We can do nothing about it. So far as each individual is
concerned all he can do is to take the abilities he has and make the
most of them. His power over the past is gone. His power over the future
depends on what he does with himself in the present. If he wishes to
live and progress he must work.
During early childhood the inspiration for anything like mental
discipline comes almost entirely from the outside. It is supplied by the
parents and teachers. It was not until I left home in February of 1886
that I could say I had much thought of my own about getting an
education. Thereafter I began to be more dependent on myself and assume
more and more self-direction. What I studied was the result of my own
choice. Instead of seeking to direct me, my father left me to decide.
But when I had selected a course he was always solicitous to see that I
diligently applied myself to it.
Going away to school was my first great adventure in life. I shall never
forget the impression it made on me. It was so deep and remains so vivid
that whenever I have started out on a new enterprise a like feeling
always returns to me. It was the same when I went to college, when I
left home to enter the law, when I began a public career in Boston, when
I started for Washington to become Vice-President and finally when I was
called to the White House. Going to the Academy meant a complete break
with the past and entering a new and untried field, larger and more
alluring than the past, among unknown scenes and unknown people.
In the spring of 1886 Black River Academy had just celebrated its
fiftieth anniversary. While it had some distinguished alumni, the great
body of its former students were the hard-working, every-day people,
that made the strength of rural New England. My father and mother and
grandmother Coolidge had been there a few terms. While it had a charter
of its own, and was independent of the public authorities, it was
nevertheless part village high school. At its head was a principal, who
had under him two women assistants. A red brick structure, built like a
church, with an assembly room and a few recitation rooms made up its
entire equipment, so that those who did not live at home boarded in
private families about the town of Ludlow. The spring term began in
midwinter in order that the girls could be out by the first Monday in
May to teach a summer district school and the boys could get home for
the season’s work on the farm.
For the very few who were preparing for college a classical course was
offered in Latin, Greek, history and mathematics, but most of the pupils
kept to the Latin Scientific, and the English courses. The student body
was about one hundred and twenty-five in number. During my first term I
began algebra and finished grammar. For some reason I was attracted to
civil government and took that. This was my first introduction to the
Constitution of the United States. Although I was but thirteen years old
the subject interested me exceedingly. The study of it which I then
began has never ceased, and the more I study it the more I have come to
admire it, realizing that no other document devised by the hand of man
ever brought so much progress and happiness to humanity. The good it has
wrought can never be measured.
It was not alone the school with its teachers, its students and courses
of study that interested me, but also the village and its people. It all
lay in a beautiful valley along the Black River supported on either side
by high hills. The tradespeople all knew my father well and he had an
intimate acquaintance with the lawyers. Very soon I too knew them all.
The chief industry of the town was a woolen mill that always remained a
mystery to me. But the lesser activity of the village was a cab shop. I
worked there some on Saturdays, so I came to know how toys and baby
wagons were made. It was my first acquaintance with the factory system,
and my approach to it was that of a wage earner. As I was employed at
piece work my wages depended on my own ability, skill and industry. It
was a good training. I was beginning to find out what existence meant.
My real academy course began the next fall term when I started to study
Latin. In a few weeks I broke my right arm but it did not keep me out of
school more than two days. Latin was not difficult for me to translate,
but I never became proficient in its composition. Although I continued
it until my sophomore year at college the only part of all the course
that I found of much interest was the orations of Cicero. These held my
attention to such a degree that I translated some of them in later life.
When Greek was begun the next year I found it difficult. It is a
language that requires real attention and close application. Among its
rewards are the moving poetry of Homer, the marvelous orations of
Demosthenes, and in after life an increased power of observation.
Besides the classics we had a course in rhetoric, some ancient history,
and a little American literature. Plane geometry completed our
mathematics. In the modern languages there was only French.
In some subjects I began with the class when it started to review and so
did the work of a term in two weeks. I joined the French class in mid
year and made up the work by starting my study at about three o’clock in
the morning.
During the long vacations from May until September I went home and
worked on the farm. We had a number of horses so that I was able to
indulge my pleasure in riding. As no one else in the neighborhood cared
for this diversion I had to ride alone. But a horse is much company, and
riding over the fields and along the country roads by himself, where
nothing interrupts his seeing and thinking, is a good occupation for a
boy. The silences of Nature have a discipline all their own.
Of course our school life was not free from pranks. The property of the
townspeople was moved to strange places in the night. One morning as the
janitor was starting the furnace he heard a loud bray from one of the
class rooms. His investigation disclosed the presence there of a
domestic animal noted for his long ears and discordant voice. In some
way during the night he had been stabled on the second floor. About as
far as I deem it prudent to discuss my own connection with these
escapades is to record that I was never convicted of any of them and so
must be presumed innocent.
The expenses at the Academy were very moderate. The tuition was about
seven dollars for each term, and board and room for each week not over
three dollars. Oftentimes students hired a room for about fifty cents
per week and boarded themselves. In my own case the cost for a school
year averaged about one hundred and fifty dollars, which was all paid by
my father. Any money I earned he had me put in the savings bank, because
he wished me to be informed of the value of money at interest. He
thought money invested in that way led to a self-respecting independence
that was one of the foundations of good character.
It was about twelve miles from Ludlow to Plymouth. Sometimes I walked
home Friday afternoon, but usually my father came for me and brought me
back Sunday evening or Monday morning. When this was not done I often
staid with the elder sister of my mother, Mrs. Don C. Pollard, who lived
about three miles down the river at Proctorsville. This was my Aunt
Sarah who is still living. She was wonderfully kind to me and did all
she could to take the place of my own mother in affection for me and
good influence over me while I was at the Academy and ever after. The
sweetness of her nature was a benediction to all who came in contact
with her. What men owe to the love and help of good women can never be
told.
The Academy had no athletics in those days, as the boys from the farms
did not feel the need of such activity. A few games of baseball were
played, but no football or track athletics were possible. Games did not
interest me much though I had some skill with a bat. I was rather
slender and not so tall as many boys of my age.
Those who attended the school from out of town were all there with a
real purpose of improving themselves, so that while there was no lack of
fun and play they all worked as best they could, for their coming had
meant too much sacrifice at home not to be taken seriously. They had
come seeking to better their condition in life through what they might
learn and the self-discipline they might secure.
The school had much to be desired in organization and equipment, but it
possessed a sturdy spirit and a wholesome regard for truth. Of course
the student body came from the country and had country ways, but the
boys were inspired with a purpose, and the girls with a sweet sincerity
which becomes superior to all the affectations of the drawing-room. In
them the native capacity for making real men and women remained all
unspoiled.
The Presidential election of 1888 created considerable interest among
the students. Most of them favored the Republican candidate Benjamin
Harrison against the then President Grover Cleveland. When Harrison was
elected, two nights were spent parading the streets with drums and
trumpets, celebrating the victory.
During most of my course George Sherman was the principal and Miss M.
Belle Chellis was the first assistant. I owe much to the inspiration and
scholarly direction which they gave to my undergraduate days. They both
lived to see me President and sent me letters at the time, though they
left the school long ago. It was under their teaching that I first
learned of the glory and grandeur of the ancient civilization that grew
up around the Mediterranean and in Mesopotamia. Under their guidance I
beheld the marvels of old Babylon, I marched with the Ten Thousand of
Xenophon, I witnessed the conflict around beleaguered Troy which doomed
that proud city to pillage and to flames, I heard the tramp of the
invincible legions of Rome, I saw the victorious galleys of the Eternal
City carrying destruction to the Carthaginian shore, and I listened to
the lofty eloquence of Cicero and the matchless imagery of Homer. They
gave me a vision of the world when it was young and showed me how it
grew. It seems to me that it is almost impossible for those who have not
traveled that road to reach a very clear conception of what the world
now means.
It was in this period that I learned something of the thread of events
that ran from the Euphrates and the Nile through Athens to the Tiber and
thence stretched on to the Seine and the Thames to be carried overseas
to the James, the Charles and the Hudson. I found that the English
language was generously compounded with Greek and Latin, which it was
necessary to know if I was to understand my native tongue. I discovered
that our ideas of democracy came from the agora of Greece, and our ideas
of liberty came from the forum of Rome. Something of the sequence of
history was revealed to me, so that I began to understand the
significance of our own times and our own country.
In March of my senior year my sister Abbie died. She was three years my
junior but so proficient in her studies that she was but two classes
below me in school. She was ill scarcely a week. Several doctors were in
attendance but could not save her. Thirty years later one of them told
me he was convinced she had appendicitis, which was a disease not well
understood in 1890. I went home when her condition became critical and
staid beside her until she passed to join our mother. The memory of the
charm of her presence and her dignified devotion to the right will
always abide with me.
In the spring of 1890 came my graduation. The class had five boys and
four girls. With so small a number it was possible for all of us to take
part in the final exercises with orations and essays. The subject that I
undertook to discuss was “Oratory in History,” in which I dealt briefly
with the effect of the spoken word in determining human action.
It had been my thought, as I was but seventeen, to spend a year in some
of the larger preparatory schools and then enter a university. But it
was suddenly decided that a smaller college would be preferable, so I
went to Amherst. On my way there I contracted a heavy cold, which grew
worse, interfering with my examinations, and finally sent me home where
I was ill for a considerable time.
But by early winter I was recovered, so that I did a good deal of work
helping repair and paint the inside of the store building which my
father still owned and rented. There was time for much reading and I
gave great attention to the poems of Sir Walter Scott. After a few weeks
in the late winter at my old school I went to St. Johnsbury Academy for
the spring term. Its principal was Dr. Putney, who was a fine
drill-master, a very exact scholar, and
[Illustration:
Allison Spence
COLONEL JOHN C. COOLIDGE
_While in the Vermont Senate_]
an excellent disciplinarian. He readily gave me a certificate entitling
me to enter Amherst without further examination, which he would never
have done if he had not been convinced I was a proficient student. His
indorsement of the work I had already done, after having me in his own
classes for a term, showed that Black River Academy was not without some
merit.
During the summer vacation my father and I went to the dedication of the
Bennington Battle Monument. It was a most elaborate ceremony with much
oratory followed by a dinner and more speaking, with many bands of music
and a long military parade. The public officials of Vermont and many
from New York were there. I heard President Harrison, who was the first
President I had ever seen, make an address. As I looked on him and
realized that he personally represented the glory and dignity of the
United States I wondered how it felt to bear so much responsibility and
little thought I should ever know.
The fall of 1891 found me back at Amherst taking up my college course in
earnest. Much of its social life centered around the fraternities, and
although they did not leave me without an invitation to join them it was
not until senior year that an opportunity came to belong to one that I
wished to accept. It has been my observation in life that, if one will
only exercise the patience to wait, his wants are likely to be filled.
My class was rather small, not numbering more than eighty-five in a
student body of about four hundred. President Julius H. Seelye, who had
led the college for about twenty years with great success as an educator
and inspirer of young men, had just retired. He had been succeeded by
President Merrill E. Gates, a man of brilliant intellect and fascinating
personality though not the equal of his predecessor in directing college
policy. But the faculty as a whole was excellent, having many strong
men, and some who were preeminent in the educational field.
The college of that day had a very laudable desire to get students, and
having admitted them, it was equally alert in striving to keep them and
help them get an education, with the result that very few left of their
own volition and almost none were dropped for failure in their work.
There was no marked exodus at the first examination period, which was
due not only to the attitude of the college but to the attitude of the
students, who did not go there because they wished to experiment for a
few months with college life and be able to say thereafter they had been
in college, but went because they felt they had need of an education,
and expected to work hard for that purpose until the course was
finished. There were few triflers.
A small number became what we called sports, but they were not looked on
with favor, and they have not survived. While the class has lost many
excellent men besides, yet it seems to be true that unless men live
right they die. Things are so ordered in this world that those who
violate its law cannot escape the penalty. Nature is inexorable. If men
do not follow the truth they cannot live.
My absence from home during my freshman year was more easy for me to
bear because I was no longer leaving my father alone. Just before the
opening of college he had married Miss Carrie A. Brown, who was one of
the finest women of our neighborhood. I had known her all my life. After
being without a mother nearly seven years I was greatly pleased to find
in her all the motherly devotion that she could have given me if I had
been her own son. She was a graduate of Kimball Union Academy and had
taught school for some years. Loving books and music she was not only a
mother to me but a teacher. For thirty years she watched over me and
loved me, welcoming me when I went home, writing me often when I was
away, and encouraging me in all my efforts. When at last she sank to
rest she had seen me made Governor of Massachusetts and knew I was being
considered for the Presidency.
It seems as though good influences had always been coming into my life.
Perhaps I have been more fortunate in that respect than others. But
while I am not disposed to minimize the amount of evil in the world I am
convinced that the good predominates and that it is constantly all about
us, ready for our service if only we will accept it.
In the Amherst College of my day a freshman was not regarded as
different from the other classes. He wore no distinctive garb, or
emblem, and suffered no special indignities. It would not have been
judicious for him to appear on the campus with a silk hat and cane, but
as none of the other students resorted to that practice this single
restriction was not a severe hardship. A cane rush always took place
between the two lower classes very early in the fall term, but it was
confined within the limits of good-natured sport, where little damage
was done beyond a few torn clothes. If we had undertaken to have a class
banquet where the sophomores could reach us, it undoubtedly would have
brought on a collision, but when the time came for one we tactfully and
silently departed for Westfield, under cover of a winter evening, where
we were not found or molested.
It had long been the practice at Amherst to give careful attention to
physical culture. It had, I believe, the first college gymnasium in this
country. Each student on entering was given a thorough examination,
furnished with a chart showing any bodily deficiencies and given
personal direction for their removal. The attendance of the whole class
was required at the gymnasium drill for four periods each week, and
voluntary work on the floor was always encouraged. We heard a great deal
about a sound mind in a sound body.
At the time of my entrance the two college dormitories were so badly out
of repair that they were little used. Later they were completely
remodeled and became fully occupied. About ten fraternity houses
furnished lodgings for most of the upper class men, but the lower class
men roomed at private houses. All the students took their meals in
private houses, so that there was a general comingling of all classes
and all fraternities around the table, which broke up exclusive circles
and increased college democracy.
The places of general assembly were for religious worship, which
consisted of the chapel exercises at the first morning period each week
day, and church service in the morning, with vespers in the late
afternoon, on Sundays. Regular attendance at all of these was required.
Of course we did not like to go and talked learnedly about the right of
freedom of worship, and the bad mental and moral reactions from which
we were likely to suffer as a result of being forced to hear scriptural
readings, psalm singings, prayers and sermons. We were told that our
choice of a college was optional, but that Amherst had been founded by
pious men with the chief object of training students to overcome the
unbelief which was then thought to be prevalent, that religious
instruction was a part of the prescribed course, and that those who
chose to remain would have to take it. If attendance on these religious
services ever harmed any of the men of my time I have never been
informed of it. The good it did I believe was infinite. Not the least of
it was the discipline that resulted from having constantly to give some
thought to things that young men would often prefer not to consider. If
we did not have the privilege of doing what we wanted to do, we had the
much greater benefit of doing what we ought to do. It broke down our
selfishness, it conquered our resistance, it supplanted impulse, and
finally it enthroned reason.
In intercollegiate athletics Amherst stood well. It won its share of
trophies on the diamond, the gridiron and the track, but it did not
engage in any of the water sports. The games with Williams and
Dartmouth aroused the keenest interest, and honors were then about even.
But these outside activities were kept well within bounds and were not
permitted to interfere with the real work of the college. Pratt Field
had just been completed and was well equipped for outdoor sports, while
Pratt Gymnasium had every facility for indoor training. These places
were well named, for the Pratt boys were very active in athletics. One
of them was usually captain of the football team. I remember that in
1892 George D. Pratt, afterwards Conservation Commissioner of the State
of New York, led his team to victory against Dartmouth, thirty to two,
and a week later kicked ten straight goals in a gale of wind at the
championship game with Williams, leaving the score sixty to nothing in
favor of Amherst. But both these colleges have since retaliated with a
great deal of success.
In these field events I was only an observer, contenting myself with
getting exercise by faithful attendance at the class drills in the
gymnasium. In these the entire class worked together with dumbbells for
most of the time, but they involved sufficient marching about the floor
to give a military flavor which I found very useful in later life when I
came in contact with military affairs during my public career.
The Presidential election of 1892 came in my sophomore year. I favored
the renomination of Harrison and joined the Republican Club of the
college, which participated in a torch-light parade, but the
unsatisfactory business condition of the country carried the victory to
Cleveland.
For nearly two years I continued my studies of Latin and Greek. Ours was
the last class that read Demosthenes on the Crown with Professor William
S. Tyler, the head of the Greek department, who had been with the
college about sixty years. He was a patriarch in appearance with a long
beard and flowing white hair.
His reverence for the ancient Greeks approached a religion. It was
illustrated by a story, perhaps apocryphal, that one of his sons was
sent to a theological school, and not wishing to engage in the ministry,
wrote his father that the faculty of the school held that Socrates was
in hell. Such a reflection on the Greek philosopher so outraged the old
man’s loyalty that he wrote his son that the school was no place for him
and directed him to come home at once.
In spite of his eighty-odd years he put the fire of youth into the
translation of those glowing periods of the master orator, which were
such eloquent appeals to the patriotism of the Greeks and such
tremendous efforts to rouse them to the defense of their country. Those
passages of the marvelous oration he said he had loved to read during
the Civil War.
My studies of the ancient languages I supplemented with short courses in
French, German and Italian.
But I never became very proficient in the languages. I was more
successful at mathematics, which I pursued far enough to take calculus.
This course was mostly under George D. Olds, who came to teach when we
entered to study, which later caused us to adopt him as an honorary
member of our class. In time he became President of the College. He had
a peculiar power to make figures interesting and knew how to hold the
attention and affection of his students. It was under him that we
learned of the universal application of the laws of mathematics. We saw
the discoveries of Kepler, Descartes, Newton and their associates
bringing the entire universe under one law, so that the most distant
point of light revealed by the largest reflector marches in harmony with
our own planet. We discovered, too, that the same force that rounds a
tear-drop holds all the myriad worlds of the universe in a balanced
position. We found that we dwelt in the midst of a Unity which was all
subject to the same rules of action. My education was making some
headway.
In the development of every boy who is going to amount to anything there
comes a time when he emerges from his immature ways and by the greater
precision of his thought and action realizes that he has begun to find
himself. Such a transition finally came to me. It was not accidental but
the result of hard work. If I had permitted my failures, or what seemed
to me at the time a lack of success, to discourage me I cannot see any
way in which I would ever have made progress. If we keep our faith in
ourselves, and what is even more important, keep our faith in regular
and persistent application to hard work, we need not worry about the
outcome.
During my first two years at Amherst I studied hard but my marks were
only fair. It needed some encouragement from my father for me to
continue. In junior year, however, my powers began to increase and my
work began to improve. My studies became more interesting. I found the
course in history under Professor Anson D. Morse was very absorbing. His
lectures on medieval and modern Europe were inspiring, seeking to give
his students not only the facts of past human experience but also their
meaning. He was very strong on the political side of history, bringing
before us the great figures from Charlemagne to Napoleon with remarkable
distinctness, and showing us the influence of the Great Gregory and
Innocent III. The work of Abélard and Erasmus was considered, and the
important era of Luther and Calvin thoroughly explored.
In due time we crossed the Channel with William the Conqueror and
learned how he subdued and solidified the Kingdom of England. The
significance of the long struggle with the Crown before the Parliament
finally reached a position of independence was disclosed, and the slow
growth of a system of liberty under the law, until at last it was firmly
established, was carefully explained. We saw the British Empire rise
until it ruled the seas. The brilliance of the statesmanship of the
different periods, the rugged character of the patriotic leaders, of
Anselm and Simon de Montfort, of Cromwell and the Puritans, who dared to
oppose the tyranny of the kings, the growth of learning, the development
of commerce, the administration of justice--all these and more were
presented for our consideration. Whatever was essential to a general
comprehension of European history we had.
But it was when he turned to the United States that Professor Morse
became most impressive. He placed particular emphasis on the era when
our institutions had their beginning. Washington was treated with the
greatest reverence, and a high estimate was placed on the statesmanlike
qualities and financial capacity of Hamilton, but Jefferson was not
neglected. In spite of his many vagaries it was shown that in saving
the nation from the danger of falling under the domination of an
oligarchy, and in establishing a firm rule of the people which was
forever to remain, he vindicated the soundness of our political
institutions. The whole course was a thesis on good citizenship and good
government. Those who took it came to a clearer comprehension not only
of their rights and liberties but of their duties and responsibilities.
The department of public speaking was under Professor Henry A. Frink. He
had a strong hold on his students. His work went along with the other
work, practically through the four years, beginning with composition and
recitation and passing to the preparation and delivery of orations and
participation in public debates. The allied subject of rhetoric I took
under Professor John F. Genung, a scholarly man who was held in high
respect. The courses in biology, chemistry, economics and geology I was
not able to pursue, though they all interested me and were taught by
excellent men.
Not the least in the educational values of Amherst was its beautiful
physical surroundings. While the college buildings of the early
nineties were not impressive, the town with its spacious common and fine
elm trees was very attractive. It was located on the arch of a slight
ridge flanked on the north by Mount Warner and on the south by the
Holyoke Range. The east rose over wooded slopes to the horizon, and the
west looked out across the meadows of the Connecticut to the spires of
Northampton and the Hampshire Hills beyond. Henry Ward Beecher has dwelt
with great admiration and affection on the beauties of this region,
where he was a student. Each autumn, when the foliage had put on its
richest tints, the College set aside Mountain Day to be devoted to the
contemplation of the scenery so wonderfully displayed in forest, hill,
and dale, before the frosts of winter laid them bare.
It always seemed to me that all our other studies were in the nature of
a preparation for the course in philosophy. The head of this department
was Charles E. Garman, who was one of the most remarkable men with whom
I ever came in contact. He used numerous text books, which he furnished,
and many pamphlets that he not only had written but had printed himself
on a hand press in his home. These he pledged us to show to no one
outside the class, because, being fragmentary, and disclosing but one
line of argument which might be entirely demolished in succeeding
lessons, they might involve him in some needless controversy. It is
difficult to imagine his superior as an educator. Truly he drew men out.
Beginning in the spring of junior year his course extended through four
terms. The first part was devoted to psychology, in order to find out
the capacity and the limits of the human mind. It was here that we
learned the nature of habits and the great advantage of making them our
allies instead of our enemies.
Much stress was placed on a thorough mastery and careful analysis of all
the arguments presented by the writers on any subject under
consideration. Then when it was certain that they were fully understood
they were criticized, so that what was unsound was rejected and what was
true accepted. We were thoroughly drilled in the necessity of
distinguishing between the accidental and the essential. The proper
method of presenting a subject and an argument was discussed. We were
not only learning about the human mind but learning how to use it,
learning how to think. A problem would often be stated and the class
left to attempt to find the solution unaided by the teacher. Above all
we were taught to follow the truth whithersoever it might lead. We were
warned that this would oftentimes be very difficult and result in much
opposition, for there would be many who were not going that way, but if
we pressed on steadfastly it was sure to yield the peaceable fruits of
the mind. It does.
Our investigation revealed that man is endowed with reason, that the
human mind has the power to weigh evidence, to distinguish between right
and wrong and to know the truth. I should call this the central theme of
his philosophy. While the quantity of the truth we know may be small it
is the quality that is important. If we really know one truth the
quality of our knowledge could not be surpassed by the Infinite.
We looked upon Garman as a man who walked with God. His course was a
demonstration of the existence of a personal God, of our power to know
Him, of the Divine immanence, and of the complete dependence of all the
universe on Him as the Creator and Father “in whom we live and move and
have our being.” Every reaction in the universe is a manifestation of
His presence. Man was revealed as His son, and nature as the hem of His
garment, while through a common Fatherhood we are all embraced in a
common brotherhood. The spiritual appeal of music, sculpture, painting
and all other art lies in the revelation it affords of the Divine
beauty.
The conclusions which followed from this position were logical and
inescapable. It sets man off in a separate kingdom from all the other
creatures in the universe, and makes him a true son of God and a
partaker of the Divine nature. This is the warrant for his freedom and
the demonstration of his equality. It does not assume all are equal in
degree but all are equal in kind. On that precept rests a foundation for
democracy that cannot be shaken. It justifies faith in the people.
No doubt there are those who think they can demonstrate that this
teaching was not correct. With
[Illustration:
Underwood & Underwood
CALVIN COOLIDGE
_At the age of three_]
them I have no argument. I know that in experience it has worked. In
time of crisis my belief that people can know the truth, that when it is
presented to them they must accept it, has saved me from many of the
counsels of expediency. The spiritual nature of men has a power of its
own that is manifest in every great emergency from Runnymede to Marston
Moor, from the Declaration of Independence to the abolition of slavery.
In ethics he taught us that there is a standard of righteousness, that
might does not make right, that the end does not justify the means and
that expediency as a working principle is bound to fail. The only hope
of perfecting human relationship is in accordance with the law of
service under which men are not so solicitous about what they shall get
as they are about what they shall give. Yet people are entitled to the
rewards of their industry. What they earn is theirs, no matter how small
or how great. But the possession of property carries the obligation to
use it in a larger service. For a man not to recognize the truth, not to
be obedient to law, not to render allegiance to the State, is for him to
be at war with his own nature, to commit suicide. That is why “the
wages of sin is death.” Unless we live rationally we perish, physically,
mentally, spiritually.
A great deal of emphasis was placed on the necessity and dignity of
work. Our talents are given us in order that we may serve ourselves and
our fellow men. Work is the expression of intelligent action for a
specified end. It is not industry, but idleness, that is degrading. All
kinds of work from the most menial service to the most exalted station
are alike honorable. One of the earliest mandates laid on the human race
was to subdue the earth. That meant work.
If he was not in accord with some of the current teachings about
religion, he gave to his class a foundation for the firmest religious
convictions. He presented no mysteries or dogmas and never asked us to
take a theory on faith, but supported every position by facts and logic.
He believed in the Bible and constantly quoted it to illustrate his
position. He divested religion and science of any conflict with each
other, and showed that each rested on the common basis of our ability to
know the truth.
To Garman was given a power which took his class up into a high
mountain of spiritual life and left them alone with God.
In him was no pride of opinion, no atom of selfishness. He was a
follower of the truth, a disciple of the Cross, who bore the infirmities
of us all. Those who finished his course in the last term of senior year
found in their graduating exercises a real commencement, when they would
begin their efforts to serve their fellow men in the practical affairs
of life. Of course it was not possible for us to accept immediately the
results of his teachings or live altogether in accordance with them. I
do not think he expected it. He was constantly reminding us that the
spirit was willing but the flesh was _strong_, but that nevertheless, if
we would continue steadfastly to think on these things we would be
changed from glory to glory through increasing intellectual and moral
power. He was right.
To many my report of his course will seem incomplete and crude. I am not
writing a treatise but trying to tell what I secured from his teaching,
and relating what has seemed important in it to me, from the memory I
have retained of it, since I began it thirty-five years ago. He
expected it to be supplemented. He was fond of referring to it as a
mansion not made with hands, incomplete, but sufficient for our
spiritual habitation. What he revealed to us of the nature of God and
man will stand. Against it “the gates of hell shall not prevail.”
As I look back upon the college I am more and more impressed with the
strength of its faculty, with their power for good. Perhaps it has men
now with a broader preliminary training, though they then were profound
scholars, perhaps it has men of keener intellects though they then were
very exact in their reasoning, but the great distinguishing mark of all
of them was that they were men of character. Their words carried
conviction because we were compelled to believe in the men who uttered
them. They had the power not merely to advise but literally to instruct
their students.
In accordance with custom our class chose three of its members by
popular vote to speak at the commencement. To me was assigned the grove
oration, which according to immemorial practice deals with the record of
the class in a witty and humorous way. While my effort was not without
some success I very soon learned that making fun of people in a public
way was not a good method to secure friends, or likely to lead to much
advancement, and I have scrupulously avoided it.
In the latter part of my course my scholarship had improved, so that I
was graduated _cum laude_.
After my course was done I went home to do a summer’s work on the farm,
which was to be my last. I had decided to enter the law and expected to
attend a law school, but one of my classmates wrote me late in the
summer that there was an opportunity to go into the office of Hammond
and Field at Northampton, so I applied to them and was accepted. After I
had been there a few days a most courteous letter came from the
Honorable William P. Dillingham requesting me to call on him at
Montpelier and indicating he would take me into his office. He recalled
the circumstance when I found him in the Senate after I became Vice
President. But I had already reverted to Massachusetts, where my family
had lived for one hundred and fifty years before their advent into
Vermont. Had his letter reached me sooner probably it would have
changed the whole course of my life.
Northampton was the county seat and a quiet but substantial town, with
pleasant surroundings and fine old traditions reaching back beyond
Jonathan Edwards. It was just recovering from the depression of 1893,
preparing to eliminate its grade crossings and starting some new
industries that would add to the business it secured from Smith College,
which was a growing institution with many hundreds of students.
The senior member of the law firm was John C. Hammond, who was
considered the leader of the Hampshire Bar. He was a lawyer of great
learning and wide business experience, with a remarkable ability in the
preparation of pleadings and an insight that soon brought him to the
crucial point of a case. He was massive and strong rather than elegant,
and placed great stress on accuracy. He presented a cause in court with
ability and skill. The junior member was Henry P. Field, an able lawyer
and a man of engaging personality and polish, who I found was an
Alderman. That appeared to me at the time to be close to the Almighty
in importance. I shall always remember with a great deal of gratitude
the kindness of these two men to me.
That I was now engaged in the serious enterprise of life I so fully
realized that I went to the barber shop and divested myself of the
college fashion of long hair. Office hours were from eight to about six
o’clock, during which I spent my time in reading Kent’s Commentaries and
in helping prepare writs, deeds, wills, and other documents. My evenings
I gave to some of the masters of English composition. I read the
speeches of Lord Erskine, of Webster, and Choate. The essays of Macaulay
interested me much, and the writings of Carlyle and John Fiske I found
very stimulating. Some of the orations of Cicero I translated, being
especially attached to the defense of his friend the poet Archias,
because in it he dwelt on the value and consolation of good literature.
I read much in Milton and Shakespeare and found delight in the shorter
poems of Kipling, Field and Riley.
My first Christmas was made more merry by getting notice that the Sons
of the American Revolution had awarded me the prize of a gold medal
worth about one hundred and fifty dollars for writing the best essay on
“The Principles Fought for in the American Revolution,” in a competition
open to the seniors of all the colleges of the nation. The notice came
one day, and it was announced in the next morning papers, where Judge
Field saw it before I had a chance to tell him. So when he came to the
office he asked me about it. I had not had time to send the news home.
And then I had a little vanity in wishing my father to learn of it first
from the press, which he did. He had questioned some whether I was
really making anything of my education, in pretense I now think, not
because he doubted it but because he wished to impress me with the
desirability of demonstrating it.
But my main effort in those days was to learn the law. The Superior
Court had three civil and two criminal terms each year in Northampton.
Whenever it was sitting I spent all my time in the court room. In this
way I became familiar with the practical side of trial work. I soon came
to see that the counsel who knew the law were the ones who held the
attention of the Judge, took the jury with them, and won their cases.
They were prepared. The office where I was had a very large general
practice which covered every field and took them into all the Courts of
the Commonwealth but little into the Federal Courts. I assisted in the
preparation of cases and went to court with the members of the firm to
watch all their trial work and help keep a record of testimony for use
in the arguments. It was all a work of absorbing interest to me.
The books in the office soon appeared too ponderous for my study, so I
bought a supply of students’ text books and law cases on the principal
subjects necessary for my preparation for the bar. These enabled me to
gain a more rapid acquaintance with the main legal principles, because I
did not have to read through so much unimportant detail as was contained
in the usual treatise prepared for a lawyer’s library, which was usually
a collection of all the authorities, while what I wanted was the main
elements of the law. I was soon conversant with contracts, torts,
evidence, and real property, with some knowledge of Massachusetts
pleading, and had a considerable acquaintance with the practical side
of statute law.
I do not feel that any one ever really masters the law, but it is not
difficult to master the approaches to the law, so that given a certain
state of facts it is possible to know how to marshal practically all the
legal decisions which apply to them. I think counsel are mistaken in the
facts of their case about as often as they are mistaken in the law.
All my waking hours were so fully employed that I found little time for
play. My college was but eight miles distant, yet I did not have any
desire to go back to the intercollegiate games, though I was accustomed
to attend the alumni dinner at commencement. There was a canoe club
which I joined, on the Connecticut, about a mile over the meadow from
the town where I often went on Sunday afternoons. I was full of the joy
of doing something in the world. Another reason why I discarded all
outside enterprises and kept strictly to my work and my books was
because I was keeping my monthly expenditures within thirty dollars
which was furnished me by my father. He would gladly have provided me
more had I needed it, but I thought that was enough and was determined
to live within it, which I did. Not much was left for any unnecessary
pleasantries of life.
Soon after I entered the office Mr. Hammond was elected District
Attorney and Mr. Field became Mayor of the city, so that I saw something
of the working of the city government and the administration of the
criminal law.
The first summer I was in Northampton came the famous free silver
campaign of 1896. When Mr. Bryan was nominated he had the support of
most of the local Democrats of the city, but he lost much of it before
November. One of them sent a long communication to a county paper
indorsing him. This I answered in one of the city papers. When I was
home that summer I took part in a small neighborhood debate in which I
supported the gold standard. The study I put on this subject well repaid
me. Of course Northampton went handsomely for McKinley.
With the exception of a week or two at home in the summer of 1896 I kept
on in this way with my work from September, 1895, to June, 1897. I then
felt sufficiently versed in the law to warrant my taking the examination
for admission to the Bar. It was conducted by a County Committee of
which Mr. Hammond was a member, but as I was his student he left the
other two, Judge William G. Bassett and Judge William P. Strickland, to
act on my petition. I was pronounced qualified by them and just before
July 4, 1897, I was duly admitted to practice before the Courts of
Massachusetts. My preparation had taken about twenty months. Only after
I was finally in possession of my certificate did I notify my father. He
had expected that my studies would take another year, and I wanted to
surprise him if I succeeded and not disappoint him if I failed. I did
not fail. I was just twenty-five years old and very happy.
It was a little over eleven years from the time I left home for the
Academy in the late winter of 1886 until I was admitted to the Bar in
the early summer of 1897. They had been years full of experience for me,
in which I had advanced from a child to a man. Wherever I went I found
good people, men and women, and young folks of my own age, who had won
my respect and affection. From the hearthstone of my father’s fireside
to the court room at Northampton they had all been kind and helpful to
me. Their memory will always be one of my most cherished possessions.
My formal period of education was passed, though my studies are still
pursued. I was devoted to the law, its reasonableness appealed to my
mind as the best method of securing justice between man and man. I fully
expected to become the kind of country lawyer I saw all about me,
spending my life in the profession, with perhaps a final place on the
Bench. But it was decreed to be otherwise. Some Power that I little
suspected in my student days took me in charge and carried me on from
the obscure neighborhood at Plymouth Notch to the occupancy of the White
House.
THE LAW AND POLITICS
CHAPTER THREE
THE LAW AND POLITICS
It is one thing to know how to get admitted to the Bar but quite another
thing to know how to practice law. Those who attend a law school know
how to pass the examinations, while those who study in an office know
how to apply their knowledge to actual practice. It seems to me that the
best course is to go to a school and then go into an office where the
practice is general. In that way the best preparation is secured for a
thorough comprehension of the great basic principles of the profession
and for their application to existing facts. Still, one who has had a
good college training can do very well by starting in an office. But in
any case he should not go into the law because it appears to be merely a
means of making a living, but because he has a real and sincere love for
the profession, which will enable him to make the sacrifices it
requires.
When I decided to enter the law it was only natural, therefore, that I
should consider it the highest of the professions. If I had not held
that opinion it would have been a measure of intellectual dishonesty for
me to take it for a life work. Others may be hampered by circumstances
in making their choice, but I was free, and I went where I felt the
duties would be congenial and the opportunities for service large. Those
who follow other vocations ought to feel the same about them, and I hope
they do.
My opinion had been formed by the high estimation in which the Bench and
Bar were held by the people in my boyhood home in Vermont. It was
confirmed by my more intimate intercourse with the members of the
profession with whom I soon came in contact in Massachusetts after I
went there to study law in the autumn of 1895. When I was admitted to
practice two years later the law still occupied the high position of a
profession. It had not then assumed any of its later aspects of a trade.
The ethics of the Northampton Bar were high. It was made up of men who
had, and were entitled to have, the confidence and respect of their
neighbors who knew them best. They put the interests of their clients
above their own, and the public interests above them both. They were
courteous and tolerant toward each other and respectful to the Court.
This attitude was fostered by the appreciation of the uprightness and
learning of the Judges.
Because of the short time I had spent in preparation I remained in the
office of Hammond and Field about seven months after I was admitted to
the Bar. I was looking about for a place to locate but found none that
seemed better than Northampton. A new block called the Masonic Building
was under construction on lower Main Street, and when it was ready for
occupancy I opened an office there February 1, 1898. I had two rooms,
where I was to continue to practice law for twenty-one years, until I
became Governor of Massachusetts in 1919. For my office furniture and a
good working library I paid about $800 from some money I had saved and
inherited from my grandfather Moor. My rent was $200 per year. I began
to be self-sustaining except as to the cost of my table board, which was
paid by my father until September, but thereafter all my expenses I
paid from the fees I received.
I was alone. While I had many acquaintances that I might call friends I
had no influential supporters who were desirous to see me advanced and
were sending business to me. I was dependent on the general public; what
I had, came from them. My earnings for the first year were a little over
$500.
My interest in public affairs had already caused me to become a member
of the Republican City Committee, and in December, 1898, I was elected
one of the three members of the Common Council from Ward Two. The office
was without salary and not important, but the contacts were helpful.
When the local military company returned that summer from the Cuban
Campaign I did my best to get an armory built for them. I was not
successful at that time but my proposal was adopted a little later. This
was the beginning of an interest in military preparation which I have
never relinquished.
During 1899 I began to get more business. The Nonotuck Savings Bank was
started early that year, and I became its counsel. Its growth was slow
but steady. In later years I was its President, a purely honorary place
without salary but no small honor. There was legal work about the county
which came to my office, so that my fees rose to $1,400 for the second
year.
I did not seek reelection to the City Council, as I knew the City
Solicitor was to retire and I wanted that place. The salary was $600,
which was not unimportant to me. But my whole thought was on my
profession. I wanted to be City Solicitor because I believed it would
make me a better lawyer. I was elected and held the office until March,
1902. It gave me a start in the law which I was ever after able to hold.
The office was not burdensome and went along with my private practice.
It took me into Court some. In a jury trial I lost two trifling cases in
an action of damages against the city for taking a small strip of land
to widen a highway. I felt I should have won these cases on the claim
that the land in question already belonged to the highway. But I
prevailed in an unimportant case in the Supreme Court against my old
preceptor Mr. Hammond. It is unnecessary to say that usually my cases
with him were decided in his favor. The training in this office gave me
a good grasp of municipal law, that later brought some important cases
to me.
In addition to the mortgage and title work of the Savings Bank, I
managed some real estate, and had considerable practice in the
settlement of estates. Through a collection business I also had some
insolvency practice. I recall an estate in Amherst and one in
Belchertown, both much involved in litigation, which I settled. In each
case Stephen S. Taft of Springfield was the opposing counsel. Perhaps
there is no such thing as a best lawyer, any more than there is a best
book, or a best picture, but to me Mr. Taft was the best lawyer I ever
saw. If he was trying a case before a jury he was always the thirteenth
juryman, and if the trial was before the court he was always advising
the Judge. But he did not win these cases. He became one of my best
friends, and we were on the same side in several cases in later years.
One time he said to me: “Young man, when you can settle a case within
reason you settle it. You will not make so large a fee out of some one
case in that way, but at the end of the year you will have more money
and your clients will be much better satisfied.” This was sound advice
and I heeded it. People began to feel that they could consult me with
some safety and without the danger of being involved needlessly in long
and costly litigation in court. Very few of my clients ever had to pay a
bill of costs. I suppose they were more reasonable than other clients,
for they usually settled their differences out of court. This course did
not give me much experience in the trial of cases, so I never became
very proficient in that art, but it brought me a very satisfactory
practice and a fair income.
I worked hard during this early period. The matters on which I was
engaged were numerous but did not involve large amounts of money and the
fees were small. For three years I did not take the time to visit my old
home in Vermont, but when I did go I was City Solicitor. My father began
to see his hopes realized and felt that his efforts to give me an
education were beginning to be rewarded.
What I always felt was the greatest compliment ever paid to my
professional ability came in 1903. In the late spring of that year
William H. Clapp, who had been for many years the Clerk of the Courts
for Hampshire County died. His ability, learning and painstaking
industry made him rank very high as a lawyer. The position he held was
of the first importance, for it involved keeping all the civil and
criminal records of the Superior Court and the Supreme Judicial Court
for the County. The Justices of the Supreme Judicial Court appointed me
to fill the vacancy. I always felt this was a judgment by the highest
Court in the Commonwealth on my professional qualifications. Had I been
willing to accept the place permanently I should have been elected to it
in the following November. The salary was then $2,300, and the position
was one of great dignity, but I preferred to remain at the Bar, which
might be more precarious, but also had more possibilities. Later events
now known enable any one to pass judgment on my decision. Had I decided
otherwise I could have had much more peace of mind in the last
twenty-five years.
As the Clerk of the Courts I learned much relating to Massachusetts
practice, so that ever after I
[Illustration:
Underwood & Underwood
CALVIN COOLIDGE
_At the age of seven_]
knew what to do with all the documents in a trial, which would have been
of much value to me if I had not been called on to give so much time to
political affairs. These took up a large amount of my attention in 1904
after I went back to my office, so that my income diminished during that
year. I had been chosen Chairman of the Republican City Committee. It
was a time of perpetual motion in Massachusetts politics. The state
elections came yearly in November, and the city elections followed in
December. This was presidential year. While I elected the
Representatives to the General Court by a comfortable margin at the
state election I was not so successful in the city campaign. Our Mayor
had served three terms, which had always been the extreme limit in
Northampton, but he was nominated for a fourth time. He was defeated by
about eighty votes. We made the mistake of talking too much about the
deficiencies of our opponents and not enough about the merits of our own
candidates. I have never again fallen into that error. Feeling one year
was all I could give to the chairmanship I did not accept a reelection
but still remained on the committee.
My earnings had been such that I was able to make some small savings. My
prospects appeared to be good. I had many friends and few enemies. There
was a little more time for me to give to the amenities of life. I took
my meals at Rahar’s Inn where there was much agreeable company
consisting of professional and business men of the town and some of the
professors of Smith College. I had my rooms on Round Hill with the
steward of the Clarke School for the Deaf. While these relations were
most agreeable and entertaining I suppose I began to want a home of my
own.
* * * * *
After she had finished her course at the University of Vermont Miss
Grace Goodhue went to the Clarke School to take the training to enable
her to teach the deaf. When she had been there a year or so I met her
and often took her to places of entertainment.
In 1904 Northampton celebrated its two hundred and fiftieth anniversary.
One evening was devoted to a reception for the Governor and his Council,
given by the Daughters of the American Revolution. Miss Goodhue
accompanied me to the City Hall where the reception was held, and after
strolling around for a time we sat down in two comfortable vacant
chairs. Soon a charming lady approached us and said that those chairs
were reserved for the Governor and Mrs. Bates and that we should have to
relinquish them, which we did. Fourteen years later when we had received
sufficient of the election returns to show that I had been chosen
Governor of Massachusetts I turned to her and said, “The Daughters of
the American Revolution cannot put us out of the Governor’s chair now.”
From our being together we seemed naturally to come to care for each
other. We became engaged in the early summer of 1905 and were married at
her home in Burlington, Vermont, on October fourth of that year. I have
seen so much fiction written on this subject that I may be pardoned for
relating the plain facts. We thought we were made for each other. For
almost a quarter of a century she has borne with my infirmities, and I
have rejoiced in her graces.
After our return from a trip to Montreal we staid a short time at the
Norwood Hotel but soon started housekeeping. We rented a very
comfortable house that needed but one maid to help Mrs. Coolidge do her
work. Of course my expenses increased, and I had to plan very carefully
for a time to live within my income. I know very well what it means to
awake in the night and realize that the rent is coming due, wondering
where the money is coming from with which to pay it. The only way I know
of escape from that constant tragedy is to keep running expenses low
enough so that something may be saved to meet the day when earnings may
be small.
When the city election was approaching in December I was asked to be a
candidate for School Committee. It was a purely honorary office, which
had no attraction for me, but I consented and was nominated. To my
surprise another Republican took out nomination papers, which split the
party and elected a Democrat. The open compliment was that I had no
children in the schools, but the real reason was that I was a
politician. That reputation I had acquired by long service on the party
committee helping elect our candidates. The man they elected gave a
useful service for several years and left me free to turn to avenues
which were to be much more useful to me in ways for public service. I
was also better off attending to my law practice and my new home.
The days passed quietly with us until the next autumn, when we moved
into the house in Massasoit Street that was to be our home for so long.
I attended to the furnishing of it myself, and when it was ready Mrs.
Coolidge and I walked over to it. In about two weeks our first boy came
on the evening of September seventh. The fragrance of the clematis which
covered the bay window filled the room like a benediction, where the
mother lay with her baby. We called him John in honor of my father. It
was all very wonderful to us.
We liked the house where our children came to us and the neighbors who
were so kind. When we could have had a more pretentious home we still
clung to it. So long as I lived there, I could be independent and serve
the public without ever thinking that I could not maintain my position
if I lost my office. I always made my living practicing law up to the
time I became Governor, without being dependent on any official salary.
This left me free to make my own decisions in accordance with what I
thought was the public good. We lived where we did that I might better
serve the people.
My main thought in those days was to improve myself in my profession. I
was still studying law and literature. Because I thought the experience
would contribute to this end I became a candidate for the Massachusetts
House of Representatives. In a campaign in which I secured a large
number of Democratic votes, many of which never thereafter deserted me,
I was elected by a margin of about two hundred and sixty.
The Speaker assigned me to the Committees on Constitutional Amendments
and Mercantile Affairs. During the session I helped draft, and the
Committee reported, a bill to prevent large concerns from selling at a
lower price in one locality than they did in others, for the purpose of
injuring their competitor. This seemed to me an unfair trade practice
that should be abolished. We secured the passage of the bill in the
House, but the Senate rewrote it in such a way that it finally failed.
I also supported a resolution favoring the direct election of United
States Senators and another providing for woman suffrage. These measures
did not have the approbation of the conservative element of my party,
but I had all the assurance of youth and ignorance in supporting them,
and later I saw them all become the law.
The next year I was reelected, but in running against a man who had a
strong hold on some of the Republican Wards, my vote was cut down.
Serving on the Judiciary Committee, which I wanted because I felt it
would assist me in my profession, I became much interested in modifying
the law so that an injunction could not be issued in a labor dispute to
prevent one person seeking by argument to induce another to leave his
employer. This bill failed. While I think it had merit, in later years I
came to see that what was of real importance to the wage earners was not
how they might conduct a quarrel with their employers, but how the
business of the country might be so organized as to insure steady
employment at a fair rate of pay. If that were done there would be no
occasion for a quarrel, and if it were not done a quarrel would do no
one any good.
The work in the General Court was fascinating, both from its nature and
from the companionship with able and interesting men, but it took five
days each week for nearly six months, so that I thought I had secured
about all the benefit I could by serving two terms and declined again to
be a candidate. Another boy had been given into our keeping April 13 who
was named Calvin, so I had all the more reason for staying at home.
My law office took all my attention. I never had a retainer from any
one, so my income always seemed precarious, but a practice which was
general in its nature kept coming to me. In June of 1909 I went to
Phoenix, Arizona, to hold a corporation meeting. It was the first I had
seen of the West. The great possibilities of the region were apparent,
and the enthusiasm of the people was inspiring. It told me that our
country was sure to be a success.
For two years Northampton had elected a Democrat to be Mayor. He was a
very substantial business man, who has since been my landlord for a
long period. He was to retire, and the Republicans were anxious to
elect his successor. At a party conference it was determined to ask me
to run and I accepted the opportunity, thinking the honor would be one
that would please my father, advance me in my profession, and enable me
to be of some public service. It was a local office, not requiring
enough time to interfere seriously with my own work.
Without in any way being conscious of what I was doing I then became
committed to a course that was to make me the President of the Senate of
Massachusetts and of the Senate of the United States, the second officer
of the Commonwealth and the country, and the chief executive of a city,
a state and a nation. I did not plan for it but it came. I tried to
treat people as they treated me, which was much better than my deserts,
in accordance with the precept of the master poet. By my studies and my
course of life I meant to be ready to take advantage of opportunities. I
was ready, from the time the Justices named me the Clerk of the Courts
until my party nominated me for President.
Ever since I was in Amherst College I have remembered how Garman told
his class in philosophy that if they would go along with events and have
the courage and industry to hold to the main stream, without being
washed ashore by the immaterial cross currents, they would some day be
men of power. He meant that we should try to guide ourselves by general
principles and not get lost in particulars. That may sound like
mysticism, but it is only the mysticism that envelopes every great
truth. One of the greatest mysteries in the world is the success that
lies in conscientious work.
My first campaign for Mayor was very intense. My opponent was a popular
merchant, a personal friend of mine who years later was to be Mayor, so
that at the outset he was the favorite. The only issue was our general
qualifications to conduct the business of the city. I called on many of
the voters personally, sent out many letters, spoke at many ward rallies
and kept my poise. In the end most of my old Democratic friends voted
for me, and I won by about one hundred and sixty-five votes.
On the first Monday of January, 1910, I began a public career that was
to continue until the first Monday of March, 1929, when it was to end
by my own volition.
Our city had always been fairly well governed and had no great problems.
Taxes had been increasing. I was able to reduce them some and pay part
of the debt, so that I left the net obligations chargeable to taxes at
about $100,000. The salaries of teachers were increased. My work
commended itself to the people, so that running against the same
opponent for reelection my majority was much increased. I celebrated
this event by taking my family to Montpelier where my father was serving
in the Vermont Senate. Of all the honors that have come to me I still
cherish in a very high place the confidence of my friends and neighbors
in making me their Mayor.
Remaining in one office long did not appeal to me, for I was not seeking
a public career. My heart was in the law. I thought a couple of terms in
the Massachusetts Senate would be helpful to me, so when our Senator
retired I sought his place in the fall of 1911 and was elected.
The winter in Boston I did not find very satisfactory. I was lonesome.
My old friends in the House were gone. The Western Massachusetts Club
that had its headquarters at the Adams House, where most of us lived
that came from beyond the Connecticut, was inactive. The Committees I
had, except the Chairmanship of Agriculture, did not interest me
greatly, and to crown my discontent a Democratic Governor sent in a
veto, which the Senate sustained, to a bill authorizing the New Haven
Railroad to construct a trolley system in Western Massachusetts.
But as chairman of a special committee I had helped settle the Lawrence
strike, secured the appointment of a commission that resulted in the
passage of a mothers’ aid or maternity bill at the next session, and I
was made chairman of a recess committee to secure better transportation
for rural communities in the western part of the Commonwealth.
During the summer we did a large amount of work on that committee and
made a very full and constructive report at the opening of the General
Court in 1913. This was the period that the Republican party was divided
between Taft and Roosevelt, so that Massachusetts easily went for
Wilson. But in the three-cornered contest I was reelected to the
Senate.
It was in my second term in the Senate that I began to be a force in the
Massachusetts Legislature. President Greenwood made me chairman of the
Committee on Railroads, which I very much wanted, because of my desire
better to understand business affairs, and also put me on the important
Committee on Rules. I made progress because I studied subjects
sufficiently to know a little more about them than any one else on the
floor. I did not often speak but talked much with the Senators
personally and came in contact with many of the business men of the
state. The Boston Democrats came to be my friends and were a great help
to me in later times.
My committee reported a bill transforming the Railroad Commission into a
Public Service Commission, with a provision intending to define and
limit the borrowing powers of railroads which we passed after a long
struggle and debate. The Democratic Governor vetoed the bill, but it was
passed over his veto almost unanimously. The bill came out for our
trolley roads in Western Massachusetts and was adopted. He vetoed this,
and his veto was overridden by a large majority. It was altogether the
most enjoyable session I ever spent with any legislative body.
It had been my intention to retire at the end of my second term, but the
President of the Senate was reported as being a candidate for
Lieutenant-Governor, and as it seemed that I could succeed him I
announced that I wished for another election. When it was too late for
me to withdraw gracefully President Greenwood decided to remain in the
Senate. I wanted to be President of the Senate, because it was a chance
to emerge from being a purely local figure to a place of state-wide
distinction and authority. I knew where the votes in the Senate lay from
the hard legislative contests I had conducted, and I had them fairly
well organized when I found the President was not to retire.
In this year of 1913 the division in the Republican party in
Massachusetts was most pronounced. Our candidate for Governor fell to
third place at the election, and another Democrat was made chief
executive, carrying with him for the first time in a generation the
whole state ticket. But my district returned me. When I reached my
office the next morning I found President Greenwood had been defeated.
Again I was ready. By three o’clock that Wednesday afternoon I was in
Boston, and by Monday I had enough written pledges from the Republican
Senators to insure my nomination for President of the Senate at the
party caucus. It had been a real contest, but all opposition subsided
and I was unanimously nominated.
The Senate showed the effects of the division in our party. It had
twenty-one Republicans, seventeen Democrats and two Progressives. When
the vote was cast for President on the opening day of the General Court,
Senator Cox the Progressive had two votes, Senator Horgan the Democrat
had seven votes, and I had thirty-one votes. I had not only become an
officer of the whole Commonwealth, but I had come into possession of an
influence reaching beyond the confines of my own party which I was to
retain so long as I remained in public life.
Although I had arrived at the important position of President of the
Massachusetts Senate in January of 1914, I had not been transported on
a bed of roses. It was the result of many hard struggles in which I had
made many mistakes, was to keep on making them up to the present hour,
and expect to continue to make them as long as I live. We are all
fallible, but experience ought to teach us not to repeat our errors.
My progress had been slow and toilsome, with little about it that was
brilliant, or spectacular, the result of persistent and painstaking
work, which gave it a foundation that was solid. I trust that in making
this record of my own thoughts and feeling in relation to it, which
necessarily bristles with the first personal pronoun, I shall not seem
to be overestimating myself, but simply relating experiences which I
hope may prove to be an encouragement to others in their struggles to
improve their place in the world.
It appeared to me in January, 1914, that a spirit of radicalism
prevailed which unless checked was likely to prove very destructive. It
had been encouraged by the opposition and by a large faction of my own
party.
It consisted of the claim in general that in some way the government was
to be blamed because everybody was not prosperous, because it was
necessary to work for a living, and because our written constitutions,
the legislatures, and the courts protected the rights of private owners
especially in relation to large aggregations of property.
The previous session had been overwhelmed with a record number of bills
introduced, many of them in an attempt to help the employee by impairing
the property of the employer. Though anxious to improve the condition of
our wage earners, I believed this doctrine would soon destroy business
and deprive them of a livelihood. What was needed was a restoration of
confidence in our institutions and in each other, on which economic
progress might rest.
In taking the chair as President of the Senate I therefore made a short
address, which I had carefully prepared, appealing to the conservative
spirit of the people. I argued that the government could not relieve us
from toil, that large concerns are necessary for the progress in which
capital and labor all have a common interest, and I defended
representative government and the integrity of the courts. The address
has since been known as “Have Faith in Massachusetts.” Many people in
the Commonwealth had been waiting for such a word, and the effect was
beyond my expectation. Confusion of thought began to disappear, and
unsound legislative proposals to diminish.
The office of President of the Senate is one of great dignity and power.
All the committees of the Senate are appointed by him. He has the chief
place in directing legislation when the Governor is of the opposite
party, as was the case in 1914. At the inauguration he presides over the
joint convention of the General Court and administers the oaths of
office to the Governor and Council in accordance with a formal ritual
that has come from colonial days, and is much more ceremonious than the
swearing-in of a President at Washington.
It did not seem to me desirable to pursue a course of partisan
opposition to the Governor, and I did not do so, but rather cooperated
with him in securing legislation which appeared to be for the public
interest. The general lack of confidence in the country and the
depression of business caused by the reduction of the tariff rates in
the fall of 1913 made it necessary to grant large appropriations for the
relief of unemployment during the winter. But I could see the steady
decrease of the radical sentiment among the people.
In the midst of the following summer the World War enveloped Europe. It
had a distinctly sobering effect upon the whole people of our country.
It was very apparent in Massachusetts, where they at once began to
abandon their wanderings and seek their old landmarks for guidance. The
division in our party was giving way to reunion. Confidence was
returning.
The Republican State Committee chose me to be chairman of the committee
on resolutions at the state convention which met at Worcester, largely
because of the impression made by my speech at the opening of the
Senate. I drew a conservative platform, pitched in the same key,
pointing out the great mass of legislation our party had placed on the
statute books for the benefit of the wage earners and the welfare of the
people, but declaring for the strict and unimpaired maintenance of our
present social, economic and political institutions. While I did not
deliver it well, in print it made an effective campaign document. After
starting in the contest with little confidence, our strength increased,
so that our candidate, Samuel W. McCall, received 198,627 votes and was
defeated by only 11,815 plurality. All the rest of our state ticket was
victorious. The political complexion of the Senate was completely
changed. From a bare majority of twenty-one the Republican strength rose
to thirty-three, and the opposition was reduced to seven Democrats.
My district returned me for the fourth time and I was again made
President of the Senate by a unanimous vote. My opening address
consisted of forty-two words, thanking the Senators for the honor and
urging them in their conduct of business to be brief.
As a presiding officer it has constantly been my policy to dispatch
business. It always took a long time to get all the Committees of the
General Court to make their reports, but I was able to keep the daily
sessions of the Senate short. I also wanted to cut down the volume of
legislation. In this some progress was made. The Blue Book of Acts and
Resolves for 1913 had 1,763 pages, for 1914 it had 1,423, and for 1915
only 1,230, which was a very wholesome reduction of more than thirty per
cent. People were coming to see that they must depend on themselves
rather than on legislation for success.
Massachusetts was beginning to suffer from a great complication of laws
and restrictive regulations, from a multiplicity of Boards and
Commissions, which had reached about one hundred, and from a large
increase in the number of people on the public pay rolls, all of which
was necessarily accompanied with a much larger cost of state government
that had to be met by collecting more revenue from the taxpayers. The
people began to realize that something was wrong and began to wonder
whether more laws, more regulations, and more taxes, were really any
benefit to them. They were becoming tired of agitation, criticism and
destructive policies and wished to return to constructive methods.
When I went home at the end of the 1915 session it was with the
intention of remaining in private life and giving all my attention to
the law. During the winter the Lieutenant-Governor had announced that
he would seek the nomination for Governor which caused some mention of
me as his successor, but I was President of the Senate and did not
propose to impair my usefulness in that position by involving it in an
effort to secure some other office, so I gave the matter no attention. A
very estimable man who had done much party service and was a brilliant
platform speaker had already become a candidate, but although my record
in the General Court was that of a liberal, the business interests
turned to me. In this they were not alone as the event disclosed. To the
people I seemed, in some way that I cannot explain, to represent
confidence. When the situation became apparent to me I went to Boston
and made the simple statement in the press that I was a candidate for
Lieutenant-Governor, without any reasons or any elaboration.
It was at this time that my intimate acquaintance began with Mr. Frank
W. Stearns. I had met him in a casual way for a year or two but only
occasionally. In the spring he had suggested that he would like to
support me for Lieutenant-Governor. He was a merchant of high character
and very much respected by all who knew him, but entirely without
experience in politics. He came as an entirely fresh force in public
affairs, unhampered by any of the animosities that usually attach to a
veteran politician. It was a great compliment to me to attract the
interest of such a man, and his influence later became of large value to
the party in the Commonwealth and nation. I always felt considerable
pride of accomplishment in getting the active support of men like him.
While Mr. Stearns always overestimated me, he nevertheless was a great
help to me. He never obtruded or sought any favor for himself or any
other person, but his whole effort was always disinterested and entirely
devoted to assisting me when I indicated I wished him to do so. It is
doubtful if any other public man ever had so valuable and unselfish a
friend.
My activities were such that I began to see more of the Honorable W.
Murray Crane. When he came to Boston he was accustomed to have me at
breakfast in his rooms at the hotel. Although he had large interests
about which there was constant legislation he never mentioned the
subject to me or made any suggestion about any of my official actions.
Had I sought his advice he would have told me to consult my own judgment
and vote for what the public interest required, without any thought of
him. He confirmed my opinion as to the value of a silence which avoids
creating a situation where one would otherwise not exist, and the bad
taste and the danger of arousing animosities and advertising an opponent
by making any attack on him. In all political affairs he had a wonderful
wisdom, and in everything he was preeminently a man of judgment, who was
the most disinterested public servant I ever saw and the greatest
influence for good government with which I ever came in contact. What
would I not have given to have had him by my side when I was President!
His end came just before the election of 1920.
These men were additional examples of good influences coming into my
life, to which I referred in relating the experience of some of my
younger days. I cannot see that I sought them but they came. Perhaps it
was because I was ready to receive them.
In the summer of 1915 politics became very active in Massachusetts.
There was a sharp campaign for the nomination for Governor, my own
effort to secure the Lieutenant-Governorship, and many minor contests. I
shall always remember that Augustus P. Gardner, then in Congress,
honored me by becoming one of the committee of five who conducted my
campaign. Many local meetings were held, calling for much speaking. In
the end Samuel W. McCall was renominated for Governor. I was named as
candidate for Lieutenant-Governor by a vote of about 75,000 to 50,000.
The news reached my father on the one-hundredth anniversary of the birth
of his father. My campaign was carried on in careful compliance with the
law, and the expense was within the allowed limit of $1,500, which was
contributed by numerous people. I was thus under no especial obligation
to any one for raising money for me.
In the campaign for election I toured the state with Mr. McCall, making
open-air speeches from automobiles during the day, and finishing with an
indoor rally in the evening. It was the hardest kind of work but most
fascinating. I remember that Warren G. Harding and Nicholas Longworth
came into the state to promote our election and spoke with us at a large
meeting one night at Lowell.
I did not refer to my own candidacy, but spent all my time advocating
the election of Mr. McCall. He was a character that fitted into the
situation most admirably. He was liberal without being visionary and
conservative without being reactionary. The twenty-five years he had
spent in public life gave him a remarkable equipment for discussing the
issues of a campaign. Whatever information was needed concerning the
state government I was in a position to supply. Much emphasis was placed
by me on the urgent necessity of preventing further increases in state
and national expense and of a drastic reduction wherever possible. The
state was ready for that kind of a message.
When the election of 1915 came, Mr. McCall won by 6,313 votes and my
plurality was 52,204. After having been held five years by Democrats,
the Governorship of Massachusetts was restored to the Republican party,
where it was to remain for the next fifteen years and probably much
longer. The extended struggle in which the Republicans had been engaged
to restore the people of Massachusetts to their allegiance to sound
government under a reunited party had at last been successful. With that
prolonged effort I had been intimately associated.
The office of Lieutenant-Governor of Massachusetts differs from that of
most states. As already disclosed he does not preside over the Senate.
The constitution of our Commonwealth is older than the Federal
Constitution and so followed the old colonial system, while most of the
states have followed the Federal system. I was _ex officio_ a member of
the Governor’s Council and chairman of the Finance and Pardon
committees. As the Council met but one day each week I was pleased with
the renewed opportunity I expected to have to practice law. But it soon
developed that I must be away so much that I asked Ralph W. Hemenway to
become associated with me, and he has since carried on my law office so
successfully that it has become his law office rather than mine.
It has become the custom in our country to expect all Chief Executives,
from the President down, to conduct activities analogous to an
entertainment bureau. No occasion is too trivial for its promoters to
invite them to attend and deliver an address. It appeared to be the
practice of Governor McCall to accept all these invitations and when the
time came, to attend what he could of them, and parcel the rest out
among his subordinates. In this way I became very much engaged. It was
an honor to represent the Governor, and a part of my duties according to
our practice. Some days I went to several meetings for that purpose,
ranging well into the night, so I was obliged to stay in Boston most of
the time.
It was during this period that I wrote nearly all of the speeches
afterwards published in “Have Faith in Massachusetts.” They were short
and mostly committed to memory for delivery. This forced me to be a
constant student of public questions.
It did not seem best for me to take a very active part in the
Presidential primaries of 1916, but I quietly supported the regular
ticket for delegates, which was elected. We had at least three
candidates for President in Massachusetts, with all of whom I was on
friendly terms, as I had never allied myself with any faction of the
party, but I felt the convention did the wise thing in turning to the
great statesman Charles Evans Hughes, and I supported him actively in
the campaign for election. He carried Massachusetts by a small vote. My
renomination came without opposition, as did that of the Governor, who
had a plurality of 46,240 at the election. My own was 84,930.
During the summer I had been chairman of a special commission to
consider the financial condition of the Boston Elevated Street Railway,
and helped make a report recommending that the Governor be authorized to
appoint a Board of Trustees who should have the control of this property
and be vested with authority to fix a rate of fare sufficient to pay the
costs of operation and a fair return to the stockholders. This was
adopted by the General Court and solved the pressing problem of street
railway transportation, which became so acute on account of the
increasing costs of operation. Later the plan was applied to the other
large company in the eastern part of the state. It was not perfect, but
saved the properties from destruction and gave a fair means of travel
at cost, which was to be ascertained by public authority.
It was in the ensuing year that the United States entered the World War.
While this took most of our thoughts off local affairs it did not
prevent opposition to the renomination of Governor McCall. Had it been
successful it would have deferred any chance for me to run for Governor
for two or three years and probably indefinitely. Under the
circumstances most of my friends supported the Governor, and he was
renominated by a wide margin. I had no opposition. But interest in the
election was not great, so that the vote was light. Nevertheless the
Governor ran 90,479 votes ahead of his nearest competitor. In my own
contest my opponent secured the Democratic, the Progressive and the
Prohibition nomination. I did not think the combination would prove
helpful to him, and it did not. He fell off 77,000 from the vote of his
predecessor, and I won by 101,731.
While the United States had been engaged in the World War every public
man, and I among them, had been constantly employed in its many
activities. It increased every function of government from the
administration in Washington down to the smallest town office. The whole
nation seemed to be endowed with a new spirit, unified and solidified
and willing to make any sacrifice for the cause of liberty. I was
constantly before public gatherings explaining the needs of the time for
men, money and supplies. Sometimes I was urging subscriptions for war
loans, sometimes contributions to the great charities, or again speaking
to the workmen engaged in construction or the manufacture of munitions.
The response which the people made and the organizing power of the
country were all manifestations that it was wonderful to contemplate.
The entire nation awoke to a new life.
It was no secret that I desired to be Governor. Under the custom of
promotion in Massachusetts a man who did not expect to be advanced would
scarcely be willing to be Lieutenant-Governor. But I did nothing in the
way of organizing my friends to secure the nomination. It is much better
not to press a candidacy too much, but to let it develop on its own
merits without artificial stimulation. If the people want a man they
will nominate him, if they do not want him he had best let the
nomination go to another.
The Governor very much desired to be United States Senator, but made no
statement indicating he would seek that honor which would cause him to
retire from his present office. Neither I nor my friends approached him
or sought to influence him. Finally he called me aside and told me to
announce that I would run for Governor, which I did. As no one knew what
he had told me, some supposed I would run against him, which I would not
have done.
I had a strong liking for this veteran public servant, and so I felt
sure he liked me. He was away on many occasions, which under the
constitution left me as Acting Governor, but at such times I was always
careful not to encroach upon his domain. While I may have differed with
my subordinates I have always supported loyally my superiors. They have
never found me organizing a camp in opposition to them. Finally the
Governor sought the Senatorship, but before his campaign was under way
he very manfully announced that as the country was at war he was
entirely unwilling to divert public attention from the national defense
to promote his political fortune and therefore withdrew. My nomination
was again unanimous.
The campaign was difficult. The really great qualities of my principal
colleague, Senator John W. Weeks, had been displayed mostly in
Washington and were not appreciated by his home people. A violent
epidemic of influenza prevented us from having a State Convention, or
holding the usual meetings, and the party organization was not very
effective. In spite of my protest and the fact that we were engaged in a
tremendous war, criticism was too often made of President Wilson and his
administration. My own efforts were spent in urging that the people and
government of Massachusetts should all join in their support of the
national government in prosecuting the war. While I was elected by only
16,773, Senator Weeks to my lasting regret was defeated, so the state
and nation lost for a time the benefit of his valuable public service.
Later he was in the Cabinet where he remained until, during my term, he
retired due to ill health, and did not long survive.
Again I supposed I had reached the summit of any possible political
preferment and was quite content to finish my public career as Governor
of Massachusetts--an office that has always been held in the highest
honor by the people of the Commonwealth.
To get a few days’ rest I went to Maine the next Friday after the
election. It was there that I was awakened in the middle of Sunday night
to be told that the Armistice had been signed. I returned to Boston the
following day to take part in the celebration. What the end of the four
years of carnage meant those who remember it will never forget and those
who do not can never be told. The universal joy, the enormous relief,
found expression from all the people in a spontaneous outburst of
thanksgiving.
While the war was done, its problems were to confront the state and
nation for many years. I was to meet them as Governor and President.
They will remain with us for two generations. Such is the curse of war.
In my inaugural address I dwelt on the need of promoting the public
health, education, and the opportunity, for employment at fair wages in
accordance with the right of the people to be well born, well reared,
well educated, well employed and well paid. I also stressed the
necessity of keeping government expenses as low as possible, assisting
in every possible way the reestablishing of the returning veterans, and
reorganizing the numerous departments in accordance with a recent change
of the constitution which limited their number to twenty.
There being no Executive Mansion the Governor has no especial social
duties, so I kept my quarters at the Adams House, as I had always lived
there when in Boston, where Mrs. Coolidge came sometimes; but as our
boys needed her she staid for the most part in Northampton. She never
had taken any part in my political life, but had given her attention to
our home. It was not until we went to Washington that she came into
public prominence and favor.
In February, President Wilson landed at Boston on his return from France
and spoke at a large meeting, where I made a short address of welcome,
pledging him my support in helping settle the remaining war problems. I
then began a friendly personal relation with him and Mrs. Wilson which
has always continued. Our service men were constantly returning and had
to be aided in getting back into private employment. About $20,000,000
was paid them out of the state treasury.
In the confusion attending the end of the war the work of legislation
dragged on well into the summer. While I did not veto many of the bills
which were passed, I did reject a measure to increase the salaries of
members of the General Court from $1,000 to $1,500, but my objection was
not sustained.
In the great upward movement of wages that had taken place those paid by
street railways had not been proportionately increased. It is very
difficult to raise fares, so sufficient money for this purpose had not
been available, though some advances had been made. Because of this
situation a strike occurred in midsummer on the Boston Elevated that
tied up nearly all the street transportation in the city district for
three or four days. Finally I helped negotiate an agreement to send the
matter to arbitration, so that work was resumed. The men secured a very
material raise in wages, which I feel later conditions fully justified.
In August I went to Vermont. On my return I found that difficulties in
the Police Department of Boston were growing serious and made a
statement to the reporters at the State House that I should support
Commissioner Edwin U. Curtis in his decisions concerning their
adjustment. I felt he was entitled to every confidence.
The trouble arose over the proposal of the policemen, who had long been
permitted to maintain a local organization of their own, to form a union
and affiliate with the American Federation of Labor. That was contrary
to a long-established rule of the Department, which was agreed to by
each member when he went on the force and had the effect of law.
When the policemen’s union persisted in its course I was urged by a
committee appointed by the Mayor to interfere and attempt to make
Commissioner Curtis settle the dispute by arbitration. The Governor
appoints the Commissioner and probably could remove him, but he has no
more jurisdiction over his acts than he has over the Judges of the
Courts; besides, I did not see how it was possible to arbitrate the
question of the authority of the law, or of the necessity of obedience
to the rules of the Department and the orders of the Commissioner. These
principles were the heart of the whole controversy and the only
important questions at issue. It can readily be seen how important they
were and what the effect might have been if they had not been
maintained. I decided to support them whatever the consequences might
be. I fully expected it would result in my defeat in the coming campaign
for reelection as Governor.
While I had no direct responsibility for the conduct of police matters
in Boston, yet as the Chief Executive it was my general duty to require
the laws to be enforced, so I remained in Boston and kept carefully
informed of conditions. I knew I might be called on to act at any time.
On Sunday, September seventh, I went to Northampton by motor and
remained overnight as I had an engagement to speak before a state
convention of the American Federation of Labor at Greenfield Monday
morning, which I fulfilled. I left that town at once for Boston,
stopping at Fitchburg to call my office to learn if there were any new
developments. I reached Boston after four o’clock that afternoon, and
had a conference with some of the representatives of the city. I did not
leave Boston again for a long time.
When it became perfectly apparent that the policemen’s union was acting
in violation of the rules of the Department the leaders were brought
before the Commissioner on charges, tried and removed from office,
whereat about three-quarters of the force left the Department in a body
at about five o’clock on the afternoon of Tuesday, September ninth. This
number was much larger than had been expected.
The Metropolitan Police of more than one hundred, and the State Police
of thirty or forty men, had been kept in readiness and were at once put
on duty, the Motor Corps of the State Guard was held at the armory, and
that night I kept the Attorney General, the Adjutant General and my
Secretary at my hotel to be ready to respond to any call for help. As
everything was quiet the Motor Corps went home. Around midnight bands of
men appeared on the street, who broke many shop windows and carried away
quantities of the goods which were on display. Many arrests were made,
but the remaining police and their reinforcements were not sufficient to
prevent the disorder. I knew nothing of this until morning.
The disorder of Tuesday night was most reprehensible, but it was only an
incident. It had little relation to the real issues. I have always felt
that I should have called out the State Guard as soon as the police left
their posts. The Commissioner did not feel this was necessary. The
Mayor, who was a man of high character, and a personal friend, but of
the opposite party, had conferred with me. He had the same authority as
the Governor to call out all the Guard in the City of Boston. It would
be very unusual for a Governor to act except on the request of the
local authorities. No disorder existed, and it would have been rather a
violent assumption that it was threatened, but it could have been made.
Such action probably would have saved some property, but would have
decided no issue. In fact it would have made it more difficult to
maintain the position Mr. Curtis had taken, and which I was supporting,
because the issue was not understood, and the disorder focused public
attention on it, and showed just what it meant to have a police force
that did not obey orders.
On reaching my office in the morning it was reported to me that the
Mayor was calling out the State Guard of Boston to report about five
o’clock that afternoon. He also requested me to furnish more troops. I
supplemented his action by calling substantially the entire State Guard
to report at once. They gathered at their armories and were patrolling
the streets in a few hours. When they came with their muskets in their
hands with bayonets fixed there was little more trouble from disorder.
It was soon reported to me that the Mayor, acting under a special law,
had taken charge of the police force of the city, and by putting a
Guard officer in command had virtually displaced the Commissioner, who
came to me in great distress. If he was to be superseded I thought the
men that he had discharged might be taken back and the cause lost.
Certainly they and the rest of the policemen’s union must have rejoiced
at his discomfort. Thinking I knew what to do, I consulted the law as is
my custom. I found a general statute that gives the Governor authority
to call on any police officer in the state to assist him. I showed this
to the Attorney General and to Ex-Attorney General Herbert Parker, who
was advising Mr. Curtis. They thought I was right and consulted a
profound judge of law, Ex-Attorney General Albert E. Pillsbury, who
confirmed their opinions. The strike occurred Tuesday night, the Guard
were called Wednesday, and Thursday I issued a General Order restoring
Mr. Curtis to his place as Commissioner in control of the police, and
made a proclamation calling on all citizens to assist me in preserving
order, and especially directing all police officers in Boston to obey
the orders of Mr. Curtis.
This was the important contribution I made to the tactics of the
situation, which has never been fully realized. To Mr. Curtis should go
the credit for raising the issue and enforcing the principle that police
should not affiliate with any outside body, whether of wage earners or
of wage payers, but should remain unattached, impartial officers of the
law, with sole allegiance to the public. In this I supported him.
When rumors started of a strike at the power house which furnished
electricity for all Boston, a naval vessel was run up to the station
with plenty of electricians on board ready to go over the side and keep
the plant in operation. A wagon train of supplies, arms, and ammunition
was brought in from Camp Devens and all the State Guard mobilized. A
statement was made by President Wilson strongly condemning the defection
of the police. Volunteer police began to come in, and over half a
million dollars was raised by popular subscription to meet necessary
expenses in caring for dependents of the Guard and even for helping the
families of some of the police who left their posts. Later I helped
these men in securing other employment, but refused to allow them again
to be policemen. Public feeling became very much aroused. While offers
of support came from every quarter the opposition was very active.
Soon, Samuel Gompers began to telegraph me asking the removal of Mr.
Curtis and the reinstatement of the union policemen. This required me to
make a reply in which I stated among other things that “There is no
right to strike against the public safety by any body, any time, any
where.” This phrase caught the attention of the nation. It was beginning
to be clear that if voluntary associations were to be permitted to
substitute their will for the authority of public officials the end of
our government was at hand. The issue was nothing less than whether the
law which the people had made through their duly authorized agencies
should be supreme.
This issue I took to the people in my campaign for reelection as
Governor. Though I was hampered by an attack of influenza and spoke but
three or four times, I was able to make the issue plain even beyond the
confines of Massachusetts. Many of the wage earners both organized and
unorganized, who knew I had always treated them fairly, must have
supported me, for I won by 125,101 votes. The people decided in favor
of the integrity of their own government. President Wilson sent me a
telegram of congratulations.
I felt at the time that the speeches I made and the statements I issued
had a clearness of thought and revealed a power I had not before been
able to express, which confirmed my belief that, when a duty comes to
us, with it a power comes to enable us to perform it. I was not thinking
so much of the Governorship, which I already had, as of the grave danger
to the country if the voters did not decide correctly. My faith that the
people would respond to the truth was justified.
The requirements of the situation as it developed seem clear and plain
now, and easy to decide, but as they arose they were very complicated
and involved in many immaterial issues. The right thing to do never
requires any subterfuges, it is always simple and direct. That is the
reason that intrigue usually falls of its own weight.
After the election I had the work of making the appointments in order to
reduce the entire state administration to the limit of twenty
Departments and a special session of the General Court to deal with some
street railway problems, so I had little time to think of politics. But
I soon learned that many people in the country were thinking of me.
The two years that I served as Governor were a time of transition from
war to peace. New problems constantly arose, great confusion prevailed,
nothing was settled and it was possible only to feel my way from day to
day. But they were years of progress if partly in a negative way. The
new position of the wage earners was perfected and solidified. A
forty-eight-hour week for women and minors was established by a bill
passed by the General Court, which I signed. The budget system went
fully into effect the first year I was Governor and helped keep the
state finances in good condition. The departments were reorganized, and
the street railways given relief. In my second year a bill was passed
allowing the sale of beer with a 2.75 per cent alcoholic content, which
I vetoed because I thought it was in violation of the Constitution which
I had sworn to defend. The veto was sustained. A constant struggle
[Illustration:
Wide World Photos
CALVIN COOLIDGE
_At Amherst College_]
was going on to keep the costs of living down and the rate of wages up.
A State Commission was held in office with increased powers to resist
profiteering in the necessaries of life. In the depression of 1920 some
of our banks and manufacturers found themselves in difficulties. All of
these things reached the Governor in one form or another. But, in
general, conditions were such that the entire efforts of the people were
engaged in easing themselves down. There was little opportunity to
direct their attention towards constructive action. They were clearing
away the refuse from the great conflagration preparatory to rebuilding
on a grander and more pretentious scale. Nothing was natural, everything
was artificial. So much energy had to be expended in keeping the ship of
state on a straight course that there was little left to carry it ahead.
But when I finished my two terms in January, 1921, the demobilization of
the country was practically complete, people had found themselves again,
and were ready to undertake the great work of reconstruction in which
they have since been so successfully engaged. In that work we have seen
the people of America create a new heaven and a new earth. The old
things have passed away, giving place to a glory never before
experienced by any people of our world.
IN NATIONAL POLITICS
_CHAPTER FOUR_
IN NATIONAL POLITICS
No doubt it was the police strike of Boston that brought me into
national prominence. That furnished the occasion and I took advantage of
the opportunity. I was ready to meet the emergency. Just what lay behind
that event I was never able to learn. Sometimes I have mistrusted that
it was a design to injure me politically; if so it was only to recoil
upon the perpetrators, for it increased my political power many fold.
Still there was a day or two when the event hung in the balance, when
the Police Commissioner of Boston, Edwin U. Curtis, was apparently cast
aside discredited, and my efforts to give him any support indicated my
own undoing. But I soon had him reinstated, and there was a strong
expression of public opinion in our favor.
The year 1919 had not produced much on the positive side of our
political life. President Wilson had returned from the peace conference
at Paris determined to have the United States join the League of Nations
as established in the final Treaty of Versailles. He found opposition in
the Senate both within and without his own party. In attempting to gain
the approval of the country he had made his trip across the continent
and returned a broken man never to regain his strength. For eight years
he had so dominated his party that it had not produced any one else with
a marked ability for leadership. During these months the contest was
raging in the Senate over the peace treaty, but as a result it had put
the leadership of our party in a negative position, which never appeals
to the popular imagination, and besides in the country many Republicans
favored a ratification of the treaty with adequate reservations. Many of
the Senators on our side cast their vote for that proposal, which would
have prevailed but for the opposition of the regular administration
Democrats. In this confusion no dominant popular figure emerged in the
Congress, but many ambitions became apparent.
Following my decisive victory in November there very soon came to be
mention of me as a Presidential candidate. About Thanksgiving time
Senator Lodge came to me and voluntarily requested that he should
present my name to the national Republican convention. He wished to go
as a delegate with that understanding. Of course I told him I could not
make any decision in relation to being a candidate, but I would try to
arrange matters so that he could be a delegate at large. When he left
for Washington he gave out an interview saying that Massachusetts should
support me.
Very soon a movement of considerable dimensions started both in my home
state and in other sections of the country to secure delegates who would
support me. An old friend and long time Secretary of the Republican
National Committee, James B. Reynolds, was placed in charge of the
movement, and I was gaining considerable strength. Senator Crane in his
own quiet but highly efficient way became very interested and let it be
known that I had his support, as did Speaker Gillett, who is now our
Senator, but then represented my home district in Congress. They both
went as delegates pledged to me.
Already several candidates were making a very active campaign. The two
most conspicuous were Major General Leonard Wood and Governor Frank O.
Lowden. Senator Hiram Johnson had considerable support, and in a more
modest way Senator Warren G. Harding was in the field. In addition to
these, several of the states had favorite sons. It soon began to be
reported that very large sums of money were being used in the primaries.
When I came to give the matter serious attention, and comprehended more
fully what would be involved in a contest of this kind, I realized that
I was not in a position to become engaged in it. I was Governor of
Massachusetts, and my first duty was to that office. It would not be
possible for me, with the legislature in session, to be going about the
country actively participating in an effort to secure delegates, and I
was totally unwilling to have a large sum of money raised and spent in
my behalf.
I soon became convinced also that I was in danger of creating a
situation in which some people in Massachusetts could permit it to be
reported in the press that they were for me when they were not at heart
for me and would give me little support in the convention. It would,
however, prevent their having to make a public choice as between other
candidates and would help them in getting elected as delegates. There
was nothing unusual in this situation. It was simply a condition that
always has to be met in politics. Of course the strategy of the other
candidates was to prevent me from having a solid Massachusetts
delegation. Moreover, I did not wish to use the office of Governor in an
attempt to prosecute a campaign for nomination for some other office. I
therefore made a public statement announcing that I was unwilling to
appear as a candidate and would not enter my name in any contest at the
primaries. This left me in a position where I ran no risk of
embarrassing the great office of Governor of Massachusetts. That was my
answer to the situation.
Nevertheless a considerable activity was kept up in my behalf, and some
money expended, mostly in circulating a book of my speeches. In the
Massachusetts primaries six or seven delegates were chosen who were for
General Wood, and while the rest were nominally for me several of them
were really more favorable to some other candidate, partly because they
supposed a Massachusetts man could never be nominated, and if the choice
was going outside the state, they had strong preferences as between the
other possibilities.
At a state convention in South Dakota held very early to express a
preference for national candidates I had been declared their choice for
Vice-President. Some people in Oregon desired to accord me a like honor.
As I did not wish my name to appear in any contest and did not care to
be Vice-President I declined to be considered for that office. In my
native state of Vermont it was proposed to enter my name in the primary
as candidate for President, which I could not permit. Nevertheless it
was written on the ballot by many of the voters at the polls.
When the Republican National Convention met at Chicago, Senator Lodge,
who was elected its chairman, had indicated that he did not wish to
present my name, so it was arranged that Speaker Gillett should make the
nominating speech. Massachusetts had thirty-five delegates. On the
first ballot I received twenty-eight of their votes and six others from
scattering states, making my total thirty-four. As the balloting
proceeded a considerable number of the Massachusetts delegates, feeling
I had no chance, voted for other candidates, but a majority remained
with me until the final ballot when all but one went elsewhere, and
Senator Warren G. Harding was nominated. My friends in the convention
did all they could for me, and several states were at times ready to
come to me if the entire Massachusetts delegation would lead the way,
but some of them refused to vote for me, so the support of other states
could not be secured.
While I do not think it was so intended I have always been of the
opinion that this turned out to be much the best for me. I had no
national experience. What I have ever been able to do has been the
result of first learning how to do it. I am not gifted with intuition. I
need not only hard work but experience to be ready to solve problems.
The Presidents who have gone to Washington without first having held
some national office have been at great disadvantage. It takes them a
long time to become acquainted with the Federal officeholders and the
Federal Government. Meanwhile they have had difficulty in dealing with
the situation.
The convention of 1920 was largely under the domination of a coterie of
United States Senators. They maneuvered it into adopting a platform and
nominating a President in ways that were not satisfactory to a majority
of the delegates. When the same forces undertook for a third time to
dictate the action of the convention in naming a Vice-President, the
delegates broke away from them and literally stampeded to me.
Massachusetts did not present my name, because my friends knew I did not
wish to be Vice-President, but Judge Wallace McCamant of Oregon placed
me in nomination and was quickly seconded by North Dakota and some other
states. I received about three-quarters of all the votes cast. When this
honor came to me I was pleased to accept, and it was especially
agreeable to be associated with Senator Harding, whom I knew well and
liked.
When our campaign opened, the situation was complex. Many Republicans
did not like the somewhat uncertain tone of the platform concerning the
League of Nations. Though it was generally conceded that the
bitter-enders had dictated the platform there were some who felt it was
not explicit enough in denouncing the League with all its works and
everything foreign, and a much larger body of Republicans were much
disappointed that it did not declare in favor of ratifying the treaty
with reservations.
The Massachusetts Republican State Convention in the fall of 1919 had
adopted a plank favoring immediate ratification with suitable
reservations which would safeguard American interests. While later the
treaty had been rejected by the Senate it was still necessary to make a
formal agreement of peace with the Central Powers, and for that purpose
some treaty would be necessary. Many Republicans favored our entry into
the League as a method of closing up the war period and helping
stabilize world conditions. Senator Crane had taken that position in
Massachusetts and repeated it again at Chicago.
Since that time the situation has changed. The war period has closed
and a separate treaty has been made and ratified. The more I have seen
of the conduct of our foreign relations the more I am convinced that we
are better off out of the League. Our government is not organized in a
way that would enable us adequately to deal with it. Nominally our
foreign affairs are in the hands of the President. Actually the Senate
is always attempting to interfere, too often in a partisan way and many
times in opposition to the President. Our country is not racially
homogeneous. While the several nationalities represented here are loyal
to the United States, yet when differences arise between European
countries, each group is naturally in sympathy with the nation of its
origin. Our actions in the League would constantly be embarrassed by
this situation at home. The votes of our delegates there would all the
time disturb our domestic tranquillity here. We have come to realize
this situation very completely now, but in 1920 it was not so clear.
At that time we were close to the war. Our sympathies were very much
with our allies and a great body of sentiment in our country, which may
be called the missionary spirit, was strongly in favor of helping
Europe. To them the League meant an instrument for that end. That was a
praiseworthy spirit and had to be reckoned with in dealing with the
people in a political campaign. This sentiment was very marked in the
East where it had a strong hold on a very substantial element of the
Republican party.
While I was taking a short vacation in Vermont several thousand people
came to my father’s home to greet me. I spent most of my time, however,
in preparing my speech of acceptance. The notification ceremonies were
held on a pleasant afternoon in midsummer at Northampton in Allen Field,
which was part of the college grounds, and its former President, the
venerable Dr. L. Clark Seelye, presided. The chairman of the
notification committee was Governor Morrow of Kentucky. A great throng
representing many different states was in attendance to hear my address.
I was careful to reassure those who feared we were not proposing to
continue our cooperation with Europe in attempting to solve the war
problems in a way that would provide for a permanent peace of the
world.
Not being the head of the ticket, of course, it was not my place to
raise issues or create policies, but I had the privilege of discussing
those already declared in the platform or stated in the addresses of
Senator Harding. This I undertook to do in a speech I made at Portland,
Maine, where I again pointed out the wish of our party to have our
country associated with other countries in advancing human welfare.
Later in the campaign I reiterated this position at New York.
This was not intended as a subterfuge to win votes, but as a candid
statement of party principles. It was later to be put into practical
effect by President Harding, in the important treaty dealing with our
international relations in the Pacific Ocean, in the agreement for the
limitation of naval armaments, in the proposal to enter the World Court,
and finally by me in the World Peace Treaty. All that I said and more in
justification of support of the Republican ticket by those interested in
promoting peace, without committing our country to interfere where we
had little interest, has been abundantly borne out by the events.
Shortly before election I made a tour of eight days, going from
Philadelphia by special train west to Tennessee and Kentucky and south
as far as North Carolina. We had a most encouraging reception on this
trip, speaking out-of-doors, mostly from the rear platform during the
day, with an indoor meeting at night. During the campaign I spoke in
about a dozen states.
The country was already feeling acutely the results of deflation.
Business was depressed. For months following the Armistice we had
persisted in a course of much extravagance and reckless buying. Wages
had been paid that were not earned. The whole country, from the national
government down, had been living on borrowed money. Pay day had come,
and it was found our capital had been much impaired. In an address at
Philadelphia I contended that the only sure method of relieving this
distress was for the country to follow the advice of Benjamin Franklin
and begin to work and save. Our productive capacity is sufficient to
maintain us all in a state of prosperity if we give sufficient attention
to thrift and industry. Within a year the country had adopted that
course, which has brought an era of great plenty.
When the election came it appeared that we had held practically the
entire Republican vote and had gained enormously from all those groups
who have been in this country so short a time that they still retain a
marked race consciousness. Many of them had left Europe to escape from
the prevailing conditions there. While they were loyal to the United
States they did not wish to become involved in any old world disputes,
were greatly relieved that the war was finished, and generally opposed
to the League of Nations. Such a combination gave us an overwhelming
victory.
After election it was necessary for me to attend a good many
celebrations. My home town of Northampton had a large mass meeting at
which several speeches were made. In Boston a series of dinners and
lunches were given in my honor. Shortly before Christmas Mrs. Coolidge
and I paid a brief visit to Mr. and Mrs. Harding at their home in
Marion, Ohio. They received us in the most gracious manner. It was no
secret to us why their friends had so much affection for them.
We discussed at length the plans for his administration. The members of
his Cabinet were considered and he renewed the invitation to me, already
publicly expressed, to sit with them. The policies he wished to adopt
for restoring the prosperity of the country by reducing taxes and
revising the tariff were referred to more casually. He was sincerely
devoted to the public welfare and desirous of improving the condition of
the people.
When at last another Governor was inaugurated to take my place and the
guns on Boston Common were giving him their first salute, Mrs. Coolidge
and I were leaving for home from the North Station on the afternoon
train which I had used so much before I was Governor. It had only day
coaches and no parlor car, but we were accustomed to travel that way and
only anxious to go home. For nine years I had been in public life in
Boston.
* * * * *
During the winter I made an address before the Vermont Historical
Society at Montpelier and spoke later at the Town Hall in New York for a
group of ladies who were restoring the birthplace of Theodore
Roosevelt.
After a brief stay at Northampton, Mrs. Coolidge and I went to Atlanta
where I spoke before the Southern Tariff Association. A great deal of
hospitality was lavished upon us by the state officials and the people
in the city. In a few days we went to Asheville, North Carolina, where
we remained about two weeks. The Grove Park Inn entertained us with
everything that could be wished, and the region was delightful.
When the Massachusetts electors met, Judge Henry P. Field of the firm
where I read law, who had moved my admission to the Bar, now had the
experience of nominating me for Vice-President. Twenty-four years had
intervened between these two services which he performed for me.
The time soon came for us to go to Washington. A large crowd of our
friends was at the station to bid us goodbye although the hour was very
early. We went a few days before March 4 in order to have a little time
to get settled. The Vice-President and Mrs. Marshall met us and gave us
every attention and courtesy. When Mr. and Mrs. Harding arrived, we went
to the station to meet them and they took us back with them to the New
Willard--where we too were staying--in the White House car President
Wilson sent for them.
About ten-thirty the next morning a committee of the Congress came to
escort us to the White House where the President and Mrs. Wilson joined
us and we went to the Capitol. Soon President Wilson sent for me and
said his health was such it would not be wise for him to remain for the
inauguration and bade me goodbye. I never saw him again except at a
distance, but he sent me a most sympathetic letter when I became
President. Such was the passing of a great world figure.
As I had already taken a leading part in seven inaugurations and
witnessed four others in Massachusetts, the experience was not new to
me, but I was struck by the lack of order and formality that prevailed.
A part of the ceremony takes place in the Senate Chamber and a part on
the east portico, which destroys all semblance of unity and continuity.
I was sworn in before the Senate and made a very brief address dwelling
on the great value of a deliberative body as a safeguard of our
liberties.
It was a clear but crisp spring day out-of-doors where the oath was
administered to the President by Chief Justice White. The inaugural
address was able and well received. President Harding had an impressive
delivery, which never failed to interest and hold his audience. I was to
hear him many times in the next two years, but whether on formal
occasions or in the freedom of Gridiron dinners, his charm and
effectiveness never failed.
When the inauguration was over I realized that the same thing for which
I had worked in Massachusetts had been accomplished in the nation. The
radicalism which had tinged our whole political and economic life from
soon after 1900 to the World War period was passed. There were still
echoes of it, and some of its votaries remained, but its power was gone.
The country had little interest in mere destructive criticism. It wanted
the progress that alone comes from constructive policies.
It had been our intention to take a house in Washington, but we found
none to our liking. They were too small or too large. It was necessary
for me to live within my income, which was little more than my salary
and was charged with the cost of sending my boys to school. We therefore
took two bedrooms with a dining room, and large reception room at the
New Willard where we had every convenience.
It is difficult to conceive a person finding himself in a situation
which calls on him to maintain a position he cannot pay for. Any other
course for me would have been cut short by the barnyard philosophy of my
father, who would have contemptuously referred to such action as the
senseless imitation of a fowl which was attempting to light higher than
it could roost. There is no dignity quite so impressive, and no
independence quite so important, as living within your means. In our
country a small income is usually less embarrassing than the possession
of a large one.
But my experience has convinced me that an official residence with
suitable maintenance should be provided for the Vice-President. Under
the present system he is not lacking in dignity but he has no fixed
position. The great office should have a settled and permanent
habitation and a place, irrespective of the financial ability of its
temporary occupant. While I was glad to be relieved of the
responsibility of a public establishment, nevertheless, it is a duty the
second officer of the nation should assume. It would be much more in
harmony with our theory of equality if each Vice-President held the same
position in the Capital City.
Very much is said and written concerning the amount of dining out that
the Vice-President does. As the President is not available for social
dinners of course the next officer in rank is much sought after for such
occasions. But like everything else that is sent out of Washington for
public consumption the reports are exaggerated. Probably the average of
these dinners during the season does not exceed three a week, and as the
Senate is in session after twelve o’clock each week day, there is no
opportunity for lunches or teas.
When we first went to Washington Mrs. Coolidge and I quite enjoyed the
social dinners. As we were always the ranking guests we had the
privilege of arriving last and leaving first, so that we were usually
home by ten o’clock. It will be seen that this was far from burdensome.
We found it a most enjoyable opportunity for getting acquainted and
could scarcely comprehend how anyone who had the privilege of sitting at
a table surrounded by representatives of the Cabinet, the Congress, the
Diplomatic Corps and the Army and Navy would not find it interesting.
Presiding over the Senate was fascinating to me. That branch of the
Congress has its own methods and traditions which may strike the
outsider as peculiar, but more familiarity with them would disclose that
they are only what long experience has demonstrated to be the best
methods of conducting its business. It may seem that debate is endless,
but there is scarcely a time when it is not informing, and, after all,
the power to compel due consideration is the distinguishing mark of a
deliberative body. If the Senate is anything it is a great deliberative
body and if it is to remain a safeguard of liberty it must remain a
deliberative body. I was entertained and instructed by the debates.
However it may appear in the country, no one can become familiar with
the inside workings of the Senate without gaining a great respect for
it. The country is safe in its hands.
At first I intended to become a student of the Senate rules and I did
learn much about them, but I soon found that the Senate had but one
fixed rule, subject to exceptions of course, which was to the effect
that the Senate would do anything it wanted to do whenever it wanted to
do it. When I had learned that, I did not waste much time on the other
rules, because they were so seldom applied. The assistant to the
Secretary of the Senate could be relied on to keep me informed on other
parliamentary questions. But the President of the Senate can and does
exercise a good deal of influence over its deliberations. The
Constitution gives him the power to preside, which is the power to
recognize whom he will. That often means that he decides what business
is to be taken up and who is to have the floor for debate at any
specific time.
Nor is the impression that it is a dilatory body never arriving at
decisions correct. In addition to acting on the thousands of
nominations, and the numerous treaties, it passes much more legislation
than the House. But it is true that unanimous consent is often required
to close debate, and because of the great power each Senator is
therefore permitted to exercise--which is often a veto power, making one
Senator a majority of the ninety-six Senators--great care should be
exercised by the states in their choice of Senators. Nothing is more
dangerous to good government than great power in improper hands. If the
Senate has any weakness it is because the people have sent to that body
men lacking the necessary ability and character to perform the proper
functions. But this is not the fault of the Senate. It cannot choose its
own members but has to work with what is sent to it. The fault lies back
in the citizenship of the states. If the Senate does not function
properly the blame is chiefly on them.
If the Vice-President is a man of discretion and character, so that he
can be relied upon to act as a subordinate in such position, he should
be invited to sit with the Cabinet, although some of the Senators,
wishing to be the only advisers of the President, do not look on that
proposal with favor. He may not help much in its deliberations, and only
on rare occasions would he be a useful contact with the Congress,
although his advice on the sentiment of the Senate is of much value,
but he should be in the Cabinet because he might become President and
ought to be informed on the policies of the administration. He will not
learn of all of them. Much went on in the departments under President
Harding, as it did under me, of which the Cabinet had no knowledge. But
he will hear much and learn how to find out more if it ever becomes
necessary. My experience in the Cabinet was of supreme value to me when
I became President.
It was my intention when I became Vice-President to remain in
Washington, avoid speaking and attend to the work of my office. But the
pressure to speak is constant and intolerable. However, I resisted most
of it. I was honored by the President by his request to make the
dedicatory address at the unveiling of a bust of him in the McKinley
Memorial at Niles, Ohio. I also delivered the address at the dedication
of the Grant statue in Washington.
During these two years I spoke some and lectured some. This took me
about the country in travels that reached from Maine to California, from
the Twin Cities to Charleston. I was getting acquainted. Aside from
speeches I did little writing, but I read a great deal and listened
much. While I little realized it at the time it was for me a period of
most important preparation. It enabled me to be ready in August, 1923.
An extra session of the Congress began in April of 1921, which was
almost continuous until March 4, 1923. While an enormous amount of work
was done it soon became apparent that the country expected too much from
the change in administration. The government could and did stop the
waste of the people’s savings, but it could not restore them. That had
to be done by the hard work and thrift of the people themselves. This
would take time.
While the country was improving it was still depressed. There was some
unemployment and a good deal of distress in agriculture because of the
very low prices of farm produce and the shrinkage in land values. When I
began to make political speeches in the campaign of 1922 I soon realized
that the country had large sections that were disappointed because a
return of prosperity had not been instantaneous. Moreover the people had
little knowledge of the great mass of legislation already accomplished,
which was to prove so beneficial to them within a few months in the
future. After I had related some of the record of the relief measures
adopted they would come to me to say they had never heard of it and
thought nothing had been done. While my party still held both the House
and Senate it lost many seats in the election, which made the closing
session of Congress full of complaints tinged with bitterness against an
administration under which many of them had been defeated. That being
the natural reaction it is useless to discuss its propriety.
While these years in Washington had been full of interest they were not
without some difficulties. Its official circles never accept any one
gladly. There is always a certain unexpressed sentiment that a new
arrival is appropriating the power that should rightfully belong to
them. He is always regarded as in the nature of a usurper. But I think I
met less of this sentiment than is usual, for I was careful not to be
obtrusive. Nevertheless I could not escape being looked on as one who
might be given something that others wished to have. But as it soon
became apparent that I was wholly engaged in promoting the work of the
Senate and the success of the administration, rather than my own
interests, I was more cordially accepted.
In these two years I witnessed the gigantic task of demobilizing a war
government and restoring it to a peace-time basis. I also came in
contact with many of the important people of the United States and
foreign countries. All talent eventually arrives at Washington. Most of
the world figures were there at the Conference on Limitation of
Armaments. Other meetings brought people only a little less
distinguished. While I had little official connection with these events
the delegates called on me and I often met them on social occasions.
The efforts of President Harding to restore the country became familiar
to me. I saw the steady increase of the wise leadership of Mr. Hughes
and Mr. Mellon in the administration of the government and the passing
of some of the veteran figures of the Senate. Chief among these was
Senator Knox of Pennsylvania. He was a great power and had a control of
the conduct of the business of the Senate, which he exercised in behalf
of our party policies, that no one else approached during my service in
Washington.
In the winter of 1923 President Harding was far from well. At his
request I took his place in delivering the address at the Budget
Meeting. While he was out again in a few days he never recovered. As
Mrs. Coolidge and I were leaving for the long recess on the fourth of
March I bade him goodbye. We went to Virginia Hot Springs for a few days
and then returned to Massachusetts, where we remained while I filled
some speaking engagements, and in July went to Vermont. We left the
President and Mrs. Harding in Washington. I do not know what had
impaired his health. I do know that the weight of the Presidency is very
heavy. Later it was disclosed that he had discovered that some whom he
had trusted had betrayed him and he had been forced to call them to
account. It is known that this discovery was a very heavy grief to him,
perhaps more than he could bear. I never saw him again. In June he
started for Alaska and--eternity.
ON ENTERING AND LEAVING THE PRESIDENCY
_CHAPTER FIVE_
ON ENTERING AND LEAVING THE PRESIDENCY
It is a very old saying that you never can tell what you can do until
you try. The more I see of life the more I am convinced of the wisdom of
that observation.
Surprisingly few men are lacking in capacity, but they fail because they
are lacking in application. Either they never learn how to work, or,
having learned, they are too indolent to apply themselves with the
seriousness and the attention that is necessary to solve important
problems.
Any reward that is worth having only comes to the industrious. The
success which is made in any walk of life is measured almost exactly by
the amount of hard work that is put into it.
It has undoubtedly been the lot of every native boy of the United States
to be told that he will some day be President. Nearly every young man
who happens to be elected a member of his state legislature is pointed
to by his friends and his local newspaper as on the way to the White
House.
My own experience in this respect did not differ from that of others.
But I never took such suggestions seriously, as I was convinced in my
own mind that I was not qualified to fill the exalted office of
President.
I had not changed this opinion after the November elections of 1919,
when I was chosen Governor of Massachusetts for a second term by a
majority which had only been exceeded in 1896.
When I began to be seriously mentioned by some of my friends at that
time as the Republican candidate for President, it became apparent that
there were many others who shared the same opinion as to my fitness
which I had so long entertained.
But the coming national convention, acting in accordance with an
unchangeable determination, took my destiny into its own hands and
nominated me for Vice-President.
Had I been chosen for the first place, I could have accepted it only
with a great deal of trepidation, but when the events of August, 1923,
bestowed upon me the Presidential office, I felt at once that power had
been given me to administer it. This was not any feeling of
exclusiveness. While I felt qualified to serve, I was also well aware
that there were many others who were better qualified. It would be my
province to get the benefit of their opinions and advice. It is a great
advantage to a President, and a major source of safety to the country,
for him to know that he is not a great man. When a man begins to feel
that he is the only one who can lead in this republic, he is guilty of
treason to the spirit of our institutions.
After President Harding was seriously stricken, although I noticed that
some of the newspapers at once sent representatives to be near me at the
home of my father in Plymouth, Vermont, the official reports which I
received from his bedside soon became so reassuring that I believed all
danger past.
On the night of August 2, 1923, I was awakened by my father coming up
the stairs calling my name. I noticed that his voice trembled. As the
only times I had ever observed that before were when death had visited
our family, I knew that something of the gravest nature had occurred.
His emotion was partly due to the knowledge that a man whom he had met
and liked was gone, partly to the feeling that must possess all of our
citizens when the life of their President is taken from them.
But he must have been moved also by the thought of the many sacrifices
he had made to place me where I was, the twenty-five-mile drives in
storms and in zero weather over our mountain roads to carry me to the
academy and all the tenderness and care he had lavished upon me in the
thirty-eight years since the death of my mother in the hope that I might
sometime rise to a position of importance, which he now saw realized.
He had been the first to address me as President of the United States.
It was the culmination of the lifelong desire of a father for the
success of his son.
He placed in my hands an official report and told me that President
Harding had just passed away. My wife and I at once dressed.
Before leaving the room I knelt down and, with the same prayer with
which I have since approached the altar of the church, asked God to
bless the American people and give me power to serve them.
My first thought was to express my sympathy for those who had been
bereaved and after that was done to attempt to reassure the country with
the knowledge that I proposed no sweeping displacement of the men then
in office and that there were to be no violent changes in the
administration of affairs. As soon as I had dispatched a telegram to
Mrs. Harding, I therefore issued a short public statement declaratory of
that purpose.
Meantime, I had been examining the Constitution to determine what might
be necessary for qualifying by taking the oath of office. It is not
clear that any additional oath is required beyond what is taken by the
Vice-President when he is sworn into office. It is the same form as that
taken by the President.
Having found this form in the Constitution I had it set up on the
typewriter and the oath was administered by my father in his capacity as
a notary public, an office he had held for a great many years.
The oath was taken in what we always called the sitting room by the
light of the kerosene lamp, which was the most modern form of lighting
that had then reached the neighborhood. The Bible which had belonged to
my mother lay on the table at my hand. It was not officially used, as it
is not the practice in Vermont or Massachusetts to use a Bible in
connection with the administration of an oath.
Besides my father and myself, there were present my wife, Senator Dale,
who happened to be stopping a few miles away, my stenographer, and my
chauffeur.
The picture of this scene has been painted with historical accuracy by
an artist named Keller, who went to Plymouth for that purpose. Although
the likenesses are not good, everything in relation to the painting is
correct.
Where succession to the highest office in the land is by inheritance or
appointment, no doubt there have been kings who have participated in the
induction of their sons into their office, but in republics where the
succession comes by an election I do not know of any other case in
history where a father has administered to his son the qualifying oath
of office which made him the chief magistrate of a nation. It seemed a
simple and natural thing to do at the time, but I can now realize
something of the dramatic force of the event.
This room was one which was already filled with sacred memories for me.
In it my sister and my stepmother passed their last hours. It was
associated with my boyhood recollections of my own mother, who sat and
reclined there during her long invalid years, though she passed away in
an adjoining room where my father was to follow her within three years
from this eventful night.
When I started for Washington that morning I turned aside from the main
road to make a short devotional visit to the grave of my mother. It had
been a comfort to me during my boyhood when I was troubled to be near
her last resting place, even in the dead of night. Some way, that
morning, she seemed very near to me.
A telegram was sent to my pastor, Dr. Jason Noble Pierce, to meet me on
my arrival at Washington that evening, which he did.
I found the Cabinet mostly scattered. Some members had been with the
late President and some were in Europe. The Secretary of State, Mr.
Hughes, and myself, at once began the preparation of plans for the
funeral.
I issued the usual proclamation.
The Washington services were held in the rotunda of the Capitol,
followed by a simple service and interment at Marion, Ohio, which I
attended with the Cabinet and a large number of officers of the
government.
The nation was grief-stricken. Especially noticeable was the deep
sympathy every one felt for Mrs. Harding. Through all this distressing
period her bearing won universal commendation. Her attitude of sympathy
and affection towards Mrs. Coolidge and myself was an especial
consolation to us.
The first Sunday after reaching Washington we attended services, as we
were accustomed to do, at the First Congregational Church. Although I
had been rather constant in my attendance, I had never joined the
church.
While there had been religious services, there was no organized church
society near my boyhood home. Among other things, I had some fear as to
my ability to set that example which I always felt ought to denote the
life of a church member. I am inclined to think now that this was a
counsel of darkness.
This first service happened to come on communion day. Our pastor, Dr.
Pierce, occupied the pulpit, and, as he can under the practice of the
Congregational Church, and always does, because of his own very tolerant
attitude, he invited all those who believed in the Christian faith,
whether church members or not, to join in partaking of the communion.
For the first time I accepted this invitation, which I later learned he
had observed, and in a few days without any intimation to me that it was
to be done, considering this to be a sufficient public profession of my
faith, the church voted me into its membership.
This declaration of their belief in me was a great satisfaction.
Had I been approached in the usual way to join the church after I became
President, I should have feared that such action might appear to be a
pose, and should have hesitated to accept. From what might have been a
misguided conception I was thus saved by some influence which I had not
anticipated.
But if I had not voluntarily gone to church and partaken of communion,
this blessing would not have come to me.
Fate bestows its rewards on those who put themselves in the proper
attitude to receive them.
During my service in Washington I had seen a large amount of government
business. Peace had been made with the Central Powers, the tariff
revised, the budget system adopted, taxation reduced, large payments
made on the national debt, the Veterans’ Bureau organized, important
farm legislation passed, public expenditures greatly decreased, the
differences with Colombia of twenty years’ standing composed, and the
Washington Conference had reached an epoch-making agreement for the
practical limitation of naval armaments.
It would be difficult to find two years of peace-time history in all the
record of our republic that were marked with more important and
far-reaching accomplishments. From my position as President of the
Senate, and in my attendance upon the sessions of the Cabinet, I thus
came into possession of a very wide knowledge of the details of the
government.
In spite of the remarkable record which had already been made, much
remained to be done. While anything that relates to the functions of the
government is of enormous interest to me, its economic relations have
always had a peculiar fascination for me.
Though these are necessarily predicated on order and peace, yet our
people are so thoroughly law-abiding and our foreign relations are so
happy that the problem of government action which is to carry its
benefits into the homes of all the people becomes almost entirely
confined to the realm of economics.
My personal experience with business had been such as comes to a country
lawyer.
My official experience with government business had been of a wide
range. As Mayor, I had charge of the financial affairs of the City of
Northampton. As Lieutenant-Governor, I was Chairman of the Committee on
Finance of the Governor’s Council, which had to authorize every cent of
the expenditures of the Commonwealth before they could be made. As
Governor, I was chargeable with responsibility both for appropriations
and for expenditures.
My fundamental idea of both private and public business came first from
my father. He had the strong New England trait of great repugnance at
seeing anything wasted. He was a generous and charitable man, but he
regarded waste as a moral wrong.
Wealth comes from industry and from the hard experience of human toil.
To dissipate it in waste and extravagance is disloyalty to humanity.
This is by no means a doctrine of parsimony. Both men and nations should
live in accordance with their means and devote their substance not only
to productive industry, but to the creation of the various forms of
beauty and the pursuit of culture which give adornments to the art of
life.
When I became President it was perfectly apparent that the key by which
the way could be opened to national progress was constructive economy.
Only by the use of that policy could the high rates of taxation, which
were retarding our development and prosperity, be diminished, and the
enormous burden of our public debt be reduced.
Without impairing the efficient operation of all the functions of the
government, I have steadily and without ceasing pressed on in that
direction. This policy has encouraged enterprise, made possible the
highest rate of wages which has ever existed, returned large profits,
brought to the homes of the people the greatest economic benefits they
ever enjoyed, and given to the country as a whole an unexampled era of
prosperity. This well-being of my country has given me the chief
satisfaction of my administration.
One of my most pleasant memories will be the friendly relations which I
have always had with the representatives of the press in Washington. I
shall always remember that at the conclusion of the first regular
conference I held with them at the White House office they broke into
hearty applause.
I suppose that in answering their questions I had been fortunate enough
to tell them what they wanted to know in such a way that they could make
use of it.
While there have been newspapers which supported me, of course there
have been others which opposed me, but they have usually been fair. I
shall always consider it the highest tribute to my administration that
the opposition have based so little of their criticism on what I have
really said and done.
I have often said that there was no cause for feeling disturbed at being
misrepresented in the press. It would be only when they began to say
things detrimental to me which were true that I should feel alarm.
Perhaps one of the reasons I have been a target for so little abuse is
because I have tried to refrain from abusing other people.
The words of the President have an enormous weight and ought not to be
used indiscriminately.
It would be exceedingly easy to set the country all by the ears and
foment hatreds and jealousies, which, by destroying faith and
confidence, would help nobody and harm everybody. The end would be the
destruction of all progress.
While every one knows that evils exist, there is yet sufficient good in
the people to supply material for most of the comment that needs to be
made.
The only way I know to drive out evil from the country is by the
constructive method of filling it with good. The country is better off
tranquilly considering its blessings and merits, and earnestly striving
to secure more of them, than it would be in nursing hostile bitterness
about its deficiencies and faults.
Notwithstanding the broad general knowledge which I had of the
government, when I reached Washington I found it necessary to make an
extensive survey of the various Departments to acquaint myself with
details. This work had to be done intensively from the first of August
to the middle of November, in order to have the background and knowledge
which would enable me to discuss the state of the Union in my first
Message to the Congress.
Although meantime I was pressed with invitations to make speeches, I did
not accept any of them. The country was in mourning and I felt it more
appropriate to make my first declaration in my Message to the Congress.
Of course, I opened the Red Cross Convention in October, which was an
official function for me as its President.
I was especially fortunate in securing C. Bascom Slemp as my Secretary,
who had been a member of the House for many years and had a wide
acquaintance with public men and the workings of legislative machinery.
His advice was most helpful. I had already served with all the members
of the Cabinet, which perhaps was one reason I found them so
sympathetic.
Among its membership were men of great ability who have served their
country with a capacity which I do not believe was ever exceeded by any
former Cabinet officers.
A large amount was learned from George Harvey, Ambassador to England,
concerning the European situation. He not only had a special aptitude
for gathering and digesting information of that nature, but had been
located at London for two years, where most of it centered.
I called in a great many people from all the different walks of life
over the country. Among the first to come voluntarily were the veteran
President and the Secretary of the American Federation of Labor, Mr.
Gompers and Mr. Morrison. They brought a formal resolution expressive of
personal regard for me and assurance of loyal support for the
government.
Farm organizations and business men, publishers, educators, and many
others--all had to be consulted.
It has been my policy to seek information and advice wherever I could
find it. I have never relied on any particular person to be my
unofficial adviser. I have let the merits of each case and the soundness
of all advice speak for themselves. My counselors have been those
provided by the Constitution and the law.
Due largely to this careful preparation, my Message was well received.
No other public utterance of mine had been given greater approbation.
Most of the praise was sincere. But there were some quarters in the
opposing party where it was thought it would be good strategy to
encourage my party to nominate me, thinking that it would be easy to
accomplish my defeat. I do not know whether their judgment was wrong or
whether they overdid the operation, so that when they stopped speaking
in my praise they found they could not change the opinion of the people
which they had helped to create.
I have seen a great many attempts at political strategy in my day and
elaborate plans made to encompass the destruction of this or that public
man. I cannot now think of any that did not react with overwhelming
force upon the perpetrators, sometimes destroying them and sometimes
giving their proposed victim an opportunity to demonstrate his courage,
strength and soundness, which increased his standing with the people and
raised him to higher office.
There is only one form of political strategy in which I have any
confidence, and that is to try to do the right thing and sometimes be
able to succeed.
Many people at once began to speak about nominating me to lead my party
in the next campaign. I did not take any position in relation to their
efforts. Unless the nomination came to me in a natural way, rather than
as the result of an artificial campaign, I did not feel it would be of
any value.
The people ought to make their choice on a great question of that kind
without the influence that could be exerted by a President in office.
After the favorable reception which was given to my Message, I stated
at the Gridiron Dinner that I should be willing to be a candidate. The
convention nominated me the next June by a vote which was practically
unanimous.
With the exception of the occasion of my notification, I did not attend
any partisan meetings or make any purely political speeches during the
campaign. I spoke several times at the dedication of a monument, the
observance of the anniversary of an historic event, at a meeting of some
commercial body, or before some religious gathering. The campaign was
magnificently managed by William M. Butler and as it progressed the
final result became more and more apparent.
My own participation was delayed by the death of my son Calvin, which
occurred on the seventh of July. He was a boy of much promise,
proficient in his studies, with a scholarly mind, who had just turned
sixteen.
He had a remarkable insight into things.
The day I became President he had just started to work in a tobacco
field. When one of his fellow laborers said to him, “If my father was
President I would not work in a tobacco field,” Calvin replied, “If my
father were your father, you would.”
After he was gone some one sent us a letter he had written about the
same time to a young man who had congratulated him on being the first
boy in the land. To this he had replied that he had done nothing, and so
did not merit the title, which should go to “some boy who had
distinguished himself through his own actions.”
We do not know what might have happened to him under other
circumstances, but if I had not been President he would not have raised
a blister on his toe, which resulted in blood poisoning, playing lawn
tennis in the South Grounds.
In his suffering he was asking me to make him well. I could not.
When he went the power and the glory of the Presidency went with him.
The ways of Providence are often beyond our understanding. It seemed to
me that the world had need of the work that it was probable he could do.
I do not know why such a price was exacted for occupying the White
House.
[Illustration: GRACE GOODHUE
_Before her marriage to Calvin Coolidge_]
Sustained by the great outpouring of sympathy from all over the nation,
my wife and I bowed to the Supreme Will and with such courage as we had
went on in the discharge of our duties.
In less than two years my father followed him.
At his advanced age he had overtaxed his strength receiving the
thousands of visitors who went to my old home at Plymouth. It was all a
great satisfaction to him and he would not have had it otherwise.
When I was there and visitors were kept from the house for a short
period, he would be really distressed in the thought that they could not
see all they wished and he would go out where they were himself and
mingle among them.
I knew for some weeks that he was passing his last days. I sent to bring
him to Washington, but he clung to his old home.
It was a sore trial not to be able to be with him, but I had to leave
him where he most wished to be. When his doctors advised me that he
could survive only a short time I started to visit him, but he sank to
rest while I was on my way.
For my personal contact with him during his last months I had to resort
to the poor substitute of the telephone. When I reached home he was
gone.
It costs a great deal to be President.
SOME OF THE DUTIES OF
THE PRESIDENT
_CHAPTER SIX_
SOME OF THE DUTIES OF THE PRESIDENT
As I recall the mounting events of the years I spent in Washington, I
appreciate how impossible it is to convey an adequate realization of the
office of President. A few short paragraphs in the Constitution of the
United States describe all his fundamental duties. Various laws passed
over a period of nearly a century and a half have supplemented his
authority. All of his actions can be analyzed. All of his goings and
comings can be recited. The details of his daily life can be made known.
The effect of his policies on his own country and on the world at large
can be estimated. His methods of work, his associates, his place of
abode, can all be described. But the relationship created by all these
and more, which constitutes the magnitude of the office, does not yield
to definition. Like the glory of a morning sunrise, it can only be
experienced--it can not be told.
In the discharge of the duties of the office there is one rule of action
more important than all others. It consists in never doing anything that
some one else can do for you. Like many other good rules, it is proven
by its exceptions. But it indicates a course that should be very
strictly followed in order to prevent being so entirely devoted to
trifling details that there will be little opportunity to give the
necessary consideration to policies of larger importance.
Like some other rules, this one has an important corollary which must be
carefully observed in order to secure success. It is not sufficient to
entrust details to some one else. They must be entrusted to some one who
is competent. The Presidency is primarily an executive office. It is
placed at the apex of our system of government. It is a place of last
resort to which all questions are brought that others have not been able
to answer. The ideal way for it to function is to assign to the various
positions men of sufficient ability so that they can solve all the
problems that arise under their jurisdiction. If there is a troublesome
situation in Nicaragua, a General McCoy can manage it. If we have
differences with Mexico, a Morrow can compose them. If there is unrest
in the Philippines, a Stimson can quiet them. About a dozen able,
courageous, reliable and experienced men in the House and the Senate can
reduce the problem of legislation almost to a vanishing point.
While it is wise for the President to get all the competent advice
possible, final judgments are necessarily his own. No one can share with
him the responsibility for them. No one can make his decisions for him.
He stands at the center of things where no one else can stand. If others
make mistakes, they can be relieved, and oftentimes a remedy can be
provided. But he can not retire. His decisions are final and usually
irreparable. This constitutes the appalling burden of his office. Not
only the welfare of 120,000,000 of his countrymen, but oftentimes the
peaceful relations of the world are entrusted to his keeping. At the
turn of his hand the guns of an enormous fleet would go into action
anywhere in the world, carrying the iron might of death and destruction.
His appointment confers the power to administer justice, inflict
criminal penalties, declare acts of state legislatures and of the
Congress void, and sit in judgment over the very life of the nation.
Practically all the civil and military authorities of the government,
except the Congress and the courts, hold their office at his discretion.
He appoints, and he can remove. The billions of dollars of government
revenue are collected and expended under his direction. The Congress
makes the laws, but it is the President who causes them to be executed.
A power so vast in its implications has never been conferred upon any
ruling sovereign.
Yet the President exercises his authority in accordance with the
Constitution and the law. He is truly the agent of the people,
performing such functions as they have entrusted to him. The
Constitution specifically vests him with the executive power. Some
Presidents have seemed to interpret that as an authorization to take any
action which the Constitution, or perhaps the law, does not specifically
prohibit. Others have considered that their powers extended only to such
acts as were specifically authorized by the Constitution and the
statutes. This has always seemed to me to be a hypothetical question,
which it would be idle to attempt to determine in advance. It would
appear to be the better practice to wait to decide each question on its
merits as it arises. Jefferson is said to have entertained the opinion
that there was no constitutional warrant for enlarging the territory of
the United States, but when the actual facts confronted him he did not
hesitate to negotiate the Louisiana Purchase. For all ordinary occasions
the specific powers assigned to the President will be found sufficient
to provide for the welfare of the country. That is all he needs.
All situations that arise are likely to be simplified, and many of them
completely solved, by an application of the Constitution and the law. If
what they require to be done, is done, there is no opportunity for
criticism, and it would be seldom that anything better could be devised.
A Commission once came to me with a proposal for adopting rules to
regulate the conduct of its members. As they were evenly divided, each
side wished me to decide against the other. They did this because, while
it is always the nature of a Commissioner to claim that he is entirely
independent of the President, he would usually welcome Presidential
interference with any other Commissioner who does not agree with him.
In this case it occurred to me that the Department of Justice should
ascertain what the statute setting up this Commission required under the
circumstances. A reference to the law disclosed that the Congress had
specified the qualifications of the members of the Commission and that
they could not by rule either enlarge or diminish the power of their
individual members. So their problem was solved like many others by
simply finding out what the law required.
Every day of the Presidential life is crowded with activities. When
people not accustomed to Washington came to the office, or when I met
them on some special occasion, they often remarked that it seemed to be
my busy day, to which my stock reply came to be that all days were busy
and there was little difference among them. It was my custom to be out
of bed about six-thirty, except in the darkest mornings of winter. One
of the doormen at the White House was an excellent barber, but I always
preferred to shave myself with old-fashioned razors, which I knew how to
keep in good condition. It was my intention to take a short walk before
breakfast, which Mrs. Coolidge and I ate together in our rooms. For me
there was fruit and about one-half cup of coffee, with a home-made
cereal made from boiling together two parts of unground wheat with one
part of rye. To this was added a roll and a strip of bacon, which went
mostly to our dogs.
Soon after eight found me dictating in the White House library in
preparation for some public utterance. This would go on for more than an
hour, after which I began to receive callers at the office. Most of
these came by appointment, but in addition to the average of six to
eight who were listed there would be as many more from my Cabinet and
the Congress, to whom I was always accessible. Each one came to me with
a different problem requiring my decision, which was usually made at
once. About twelve-fifteen those began to be brought in who were to be
somewhat formally presented. At twelve-thirty the doors were opened, and
a long line passed by who wished merely to shake hands with the
President. On one occasion I shook hands with nineteen hundred in
thirty-four minutes, which is probably my record. Instead of a burden,
it was a pleasure and a relief to meet people in that way and listen to
their greeting, which was often a benediction. It was at this same hour
that the numerous groups assembled in the South Grounds, where I joined
them for the photographs used for news purposes and permanent mementoes
of their White House visit.
Lunch came at one o’clock, at which we usually had guests. It made an
opportunity for giving our friends a little more attention than could be
extended through a mere handshake. About an hour was devoted to rest
before returning to the office, where the afternoon was reserved for
attention to the immense number of documents which pass over the desk of
the President. These were all cleaned up each day. Before dinner another
walk was in order, followed by exercises on some of the vibrating
machines kept in my room. We gathered at the dinner table at seven
o’clock and within three-quarters of an hour work would be resumed with
my stenographer to continue until about ten o’clock.
The White House offices are under the direction of the Secretary to the
President. They are the center of activities which are world-wide.
Reports come in daily from heads of departments, from distant
possessions, and from foreign diplomats and consular agents scattered
all over the earth. A mass of correspondence, from the Congress, the
officials of the states, and the general public, is constantly being
received. All of this often reaches two thousand pieces in a day. Very
much of it is sent at once to the Department to which it refers, from
which an answer is sent direct to the writer. Other parts are sent to
different members of the office staff; and some is laid before the
President. While I signed many letters, I did not dictate many. After
indicating the nature of the reply, it was usually put into form by some
of the secretaries. A great many photographs were sent in to be
inscribed, and a constant stream of autographs went to all who wrote for
them.
At ten-thirty on Tuesdays and Fridays the Cabinet meetings were held.
These were always very informal. Each member was asked if he had any
problem he wished to lay before the President. When I first attended
with President Harding at the beginning of a new administration these
were rather numerous. Later, they decreased, as each member felt better
able to solve his own problems. After entire freedom of discussion, but
always without a vote of any kind, I was accustomed to announce what the
decision should be. There never ought to be and never were marked
differences of opinion in my Cabinet. As their duties were not to advise
each other, but to advise the President, they could not disagree among
themselves. I rarely failed to accept their recommendations. Sometimes
they wished for larger appropriations than the state of the Treasury
warranted, but they all cooperated most sincerely in the policy of
economy and were content with such funds as I could assign to them.
The Secretary of State is the agency through which the President
exercises his constitutional authority to deal with foreign relations.
As this subject is a matter of constant interchange, he makes no annual
report upon it. Other Cabinet officers make annual reports to the
President on the whole conduct of their departments, which he transmits
to the Congress. All the intercourse with foreign governments is carried
on through the Secretary of State, and a national of a foreign country
can not be received by the President unless the accredited diplomatic
representative of his government has made an appointment for him through
the State Department.
All foreign approaches to the President are through this Department.
When an Ambassador or Minister is to present his credentials, the
Undersecretary of State brings him to the White House and escorts him to
the Green Room. After the President has taken his position standing in
the Blue Room accompanied by his aides, the diplomat is then brought
before him. He presents his letters with a short formal statement, to
which the President responds in kind. When the mutual expressions of
friendly interest and good will have been exchanged, the accompanying
staff of the diplomat is brought in for presentation, after which he
retires. Except when foreign officials are presented for an audience in
this way, the etiquette of the White House requires that those who are
present should remain until the President and the Mistress of the White
House retire from the room.
A competent man is assigned from the State Department to have the
management of the White House official social function. He has under
him a considerable staff located in one of the basement rooms, known as
the Social Bureau. They keep a careful list of all those who leave cards
and of the officials who should be invited to receptions, which is
constantly revised to meet changing conditions. While the President has
supervision over all these functions, the most effective way to deal
with them is to provide a capable Mistress of the White House. I have
often been complimented on the choice which I made nearly twenty-five
years ago. These functions were so much in the hands of Mrs. Coolidge
that oftentimes I did not know what guests were to be present until I
met them in the Blue Room just before going in to dinner.
These social functions are almost as much a part of the life of official
Washington as a session of the Congress or a term of the Supreme Court.
The season opens with the Cabinet dinner. Following this come the
Diplomatic reception, the Diplomatic dinner, then the Judicial
reception, the Supreme Court dinner, then the Congressional reception
and the Speaker’s dinner, with the last reception of the year tendered
to the Army and Navy. About fifty guests assemble at the dinners, except
that given to the diplomats, when the presence of the Ambassadors or
Ministers, with their wives, of all countries represented in Washington
brings the number up to about ninety. The Marine Band is in attendance
on all these occasions. Following the dinners a short musical recital by
famous artists is given in the East Room, to which many additional
guests are invited.
A reception is a particularly colorful event. About thirty-five hundred
invitations are issued. When the guests are assembled the President and
his wife, preceded by his aides and followed by the Cabinet and his
Secretary and their wives, go down the main staircase, pausing for a
moment to receive the military salute of the band, and then pass to the
Blue Room where the receptions are always held. When the foreign
diplomats are present in their official dress, the scene is very
brilliant. After all the presentations have been made, the President and
his retinue return to the second floor. Immediately after this there is
dancing in the East Room to furnish entertainment while the long line
of cars comes up to take the guests home.
Whenever the prominent officials of foreign governments visit
Washington, it is customary to receive them at a luncheon or dinner at
the White House. When the Prince of Wales was here in 1924 we were in
mourning, due to the loss of our son, so that he lunched with us
informally without any other invited guests. When the Queen of Rumania
came to Washington she was entertained at dinner. There have also been
Princes of the reigning house of Japan and of Sweden, the Premier of
France, the Governor General of Canada, the Presidents of the Irish Free
State, of Cuba, and of Mexico, who have been received and entertained in
some manner. Whenever an official gathering of foreigners, like the
Panama Conference, convenes in Washington, the President and the
Mistress of the White House tender them a reception and a dinner.
Besides these formal social gatherings, there were various afternoon
teas and musicales, which I sometimes neglected, and usually one or two
garden parties held in the South Grounds, one of which was for the
disabled veterans who were patients in Washington hospitals. These
parties were accompanied with band music and light refreshments, which
always seemed to be appreciated by the veterans.
My personal social functions consisted of the White House breakfasts,
which were attended by fifteen to twenty-five members of the House and
Senate and others, who gathered around my table at eight-thirty o’clock
in the morning to partake of a meal which ended with wheat cakes and
Vermont maple syrup. During the last session of the Congress I invited
all the members of the Senate, all the chairmen and ranking Democratic
members of the committees of the House, and finally had breakfast with
the officers of both houses of the Congress. Although we did not
undertake to discuss matters of public business at these breakfasts,
they were productive of a spirit of good fellowship which was no doubt a
helpful influence to the transaction of public business.
In addition to these White House events, the President and his wife go
out to twelve official dinners. They begin with the Vice-President, go
on among the ten members of the Cabinet, and close with the Speaker of
the House. Aside from these, it is not customary for the President to
accept the hospitality of any individuals. This is not from any desire
on his part to be exclusive, but rather arises from an application of
the principle of equality. The number of days in his term of office is
limited. If he gave up all the time when he is not otherwise necessarily
engaged, it is doubtful if he could find fifty evenings in a year when
he could accept invitations. At once he would be confronted with the
necessity of deciding which to accept and which to reject. If he served
eight years, he could only touch the fringe of official Washington, even
if he chose to disregard all the balance of the country. The only escape
from an otherwise impossible situation is to observe the rule of
refusing all social invitations.
The President stands at the head of all official and social rank in the
nation. As he is Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy, all their
officers are his subordinates. As he is the head of the government, he
outranks all other public officials. As the first citizen, he is placed
at the top of the social scale. Wherever he goes, whenever he appears,
he must be assigned the place of honor. It follows from this that he can
not consistently attend a dinner or any other function given by some one
else in honor of any other person. He can have ceremonies of his own at
the White House, or outside, in which he recognizes the merit of others
and bestows upon them appropriate honors. But his participation in any
other occasion of such a nature is confined to sending an appropriate
message.
It would make great confusion in all White House relations unless the
rules of procedure were observed. If this were not done, the most
ambitious and intruding would seize the place of honor, or it would be
bestowed by favor. In both cases all official position would be ignored.
In its working out, therefore, the adoption of rules which take no
account of persons, but simply apply to places, is the only method which
is in harmony with our spirit of equality. In its application it gives
us more completely a government of laws and not of men.
As he is head of the government, charged with making appointments, and
clothed with the executive power, the President has a certain
responsibility for the conduct of all departments, commissions and
independent bureaus. While I was willing to advise with any of these
officers and give them any assistance in my power, I always felt they
should make their own decisions and rarely volunteered any advice. Many
applications are made requesting the President to seek to influence
these bodies, and such applications were usually transmitted to them for
their information without comment. Wherever they exercise judicial
functions, I always felt that some impropriety might attach to any
suggestions from me. The parties before them are entitled to a fair
trial on the merits of their case and to have judgment rendered by those
to whom both sides have presented their evidence. If some one on the
outside undertook to interfere, even if grave injustice was not done,
the integrity of a commission which comes from a knowledge that it can
be relied on to exercise its own independent judgment would be very much
impaired.
I never hesitated to ask commissions to speed up their work and get
their business done, but if they were not doing it correctly my remedy
would be to supplant them with those who I thought would do better. At
one time the Shipping Board adopted a resolution declaring their
independence of the President and claiming they were responsible solely
to the Congress. As I always considered they had a rather impossible
task, I doubted whether any one could be very successful in its
performance. If they wished to try to relieve me of its responsibility,
I had no personal objection and would probably be saved from
considerable criticism. But they found they could not carry on their
work without the support of the President, so that some of them resigned
and the remainder reestablished their contact with the White House,
which was always open to them.
The practice which I followed in my relations with commissions and in
the recognition of rank has been long established. President Jefferson
seems to have entertained the opinion that even the Supreme Court should
be influenced by his wishes and that failing in this a recalcitrant
judge should be impeached by a complaisant Congress. This brought him
into a sharp conflict with John Marshall, who resisted any encroachment
upon the independence of the Court. In this controversy the position of
Marshall has been vindicated. It is also said that at some of his
official dinners President Jefferson left all his guests to the
confusion of taking whatever seat they could find at his table. But this
method did not survive the test of history. In spite of all his
greatness, any one who had as many ideas as Jefferson was bound to find
that some of them would not work. But this does not detract from the
wisdom of his faith in the people and his constant insistence that they
be left to manage their own affairs. His opposition to bureaucracy will
bear careful analysis, and the country could stand a great deal more of
its application. The trouble with us is that we talk about Jefferson but
do not follow him. In his theory that the people should manage their
government, and not be managed by it, he was everlastingly right.
Tradition and custom, it will be seen, are oftentimes determining
factors in the Presidential office, as they are in all other walks of
life. This is not because they are arbitrary or artificial, but because
long experience has demonstrated that they are the best methods of
dealing with human affairs. Things are done in a certain way after many
repetitions show that way causes the least friction and is most likely
to bring the desired result. While there are times when the people might
enjoy the spectacular, in the end they will only be satisfied with
accomplishments. The President gets the best advice he can find, uses
the best judgment at his command, and leaves the event in the hands of
Providence.
Everything that the President does potentially at least is of such great
importance that he must be constantly on guard. This applies not only to
himself, but to everybody about him. Not only in all his official
actions, but in all his social intercourse, and even in his recreation
and repose, he is constantly watched by a multitude of eyes to determine
if there is anything unusual, extraordinary, or irregular, which can be
set down in praise or in blame. Oftentimes trifling incidents, some
insignificant action, an unfortunate phrase in an address, an
injudicious letter, a lack of patience towards some one who presents an
impossible proposition, too much attention to one person, or too little
courtesy towards another, become magnified into the sensation of the
hour. While such events finally sink into their proper place in history
as too small for consideration, if they occur frequently they create an
atmosphere of distraction that might seriously interfere with the
conduct of public business which is really important.
It was my desire to maintain about the White House as far as possible an
attitude of simplicity and not engage in anything that had an air of
pretentious display. That was my conception of the great office. It
carries sufficient power within itself, so that it does not require any
of the outward trappings of pomp and splendor for the purpose of
creating an impression. It has a dignity of its own which makes it
self-sufficient. Of course, there should be proper formality, and
personal relations should be conducted at all times with decorum and
dignity, and in accordance with the best traditions of polite society.
But there is no need of theatricals.
But, however much he may deplore it, the President ceases to be an
ordinary citizen. In order to function at all he has to be surrounded
with many safeguards. If these were removed for only a short time, he
would be overwhelmed by the people who would surge in upon him. In
traveling it would be agreeable to me to use the regular trains which
are open to the public. I have done so once or twice. But I found it
made great difficulty for the railroads. They reported that it was
unsafe, because they could not take the necessary precautions. It
therefore seemed best to run a second section, following a regular
train, for the exclusive use of the President and his party. While the
facilities of a private car have always been offered, I think they have
only been used once, when one was needed for the better comfort of Mrs.
Coolidge during her illness. Although I have not been given to much
travel during my term of office, it has been sufficient, so that I am
convinced the government should own a private car for the use of the
President when he leaves Washington. The pressure on him is so great,
the responsibilities are so heavy, that it is wise public policy in
order to secure his best services to provide him with such ample
facilities that he will be relieved as far as possible from all physical
inconveniences.
It is not generally understood how much detail is involved in any
journey of the President. One or two secret service men must go to the
destination several days in advance. His line of travel and every street
and location which he is to visit are carefully examined. The order of
ceremonies has to be submitted for approval. Oftentimes the local police
are inadequate, so that it is necessary to use some of the military or
naval forces to assist them. Not only his aides and his personal
physician, but also secret service men, some of his office force, and
house servants, have to be in attendance. Quarters must also be provided
for a large retinue of newspaper reporters and camera men who follow him
upon all occasions. Every switch that he goes over is spiked down. Every
freight train that he passes is stopped and every passenger train slowed
down to ten miles per hour. While all of this proceeds smoothly, it
requires careful attention to a great variety of details.
It has never been my practice to speak from rear platforms. The
confusion is so great that few people could hear and it does not seem to
me very dignified. When the President speaks it ought to be an event.
The excuse for such appearances which formerly existed has been
eliminated by the coming of the radio. It is so often that the President
is on the air that almost any one who wishes has ample opportunity to
hear his voice. It has seemed more appropriate for Mrs. Coolidge and me
to appear at the rear of the train where the people could see us. About
the only time that I have spoken was at Bennington in September of 1928,
where I expressed my affection and respect for the people of the state
of Vermont, as I was passing through that town on my way back to
Washington. I found that the love I had for the hills where I was born
touched a responsive chord in the heart of the whole nation.
One of the most appalling trials which confront a President is the
perpetual clamor for public utterances. Invitations are constant and
pressing. They come by wire, by mail, and by delegations. No event of
importance is celebrated anywhere in the United States without inviting
him to come to deliver an oration. When others are enjoying a holiday,
he is expected to make a public appearance in order to entertain and
instruct by a formal address. There are a few public statements that he
does not deliver in person, like proclamations, and messages, which go
to the Congress, either reporting his views on the state of the Union in
his Annual Message or giving his reasons for rejecting legislation in a
veto. These productions vary in length. My Annual Message would be about
twelve thousand words. My speeches would average a little over three
thousand words. In the course of a year the entire number reaches about
twenty, which probably represents an output of at least seventy-five
thousand words.
This kind of work is very exacting. It requires the most laborious and
extended research and study, and the most careful and painstaking
thought. Each word has to be weighed in the realization that it is a
Presidential utterance which will be dissected at home and abroad to
discover its outward meaning and any possible hidden implications.
Before it is finished it is thoroughly examined by one or two of my
staff, and oftentimes by a member of the Cabinet. It is not difficult
for me to deliver an address. The difficulty lies in its preparation.
This is an important part of the work of a President which he can not
escape. It is inherent in the office.
[Illustration: CALVIN COOLIDGE AND HIS FAMILY
_The day he became Governor of Massachusetts_]
A great many presents come to the White House, which are all cherished,
not so much for their intrinsic value as because they are tokens of
esteem and affection. Almost everything that can be eaten comes. We
always know what to do with that. But some of the pets that are offered
us are more of a problem. I have a beautiful black-haired bear that was
brought all the way from Mexico in a truck, and a pair of live lion cubs
now grown up, and a small species of hippopotamus which came from South
Africa. These and other animals and birds have been placed in the
zoological quarters in Rock Creek Park. We always had more dogs than we
could take care of. My favorites were the white collies, which became so
much associated with me that they are enshrined in my bookplate, where
they will live as long as our country endures. One of them, Prudence
Prim, was especially attached to Mrs. Coolidge. We lost her in the Black
Hills. She lies out there in the shadow of Bear Butte where the Indians
told me the Great Spirit came to commune with his children. One was my
companion, Rob Roy. He was a stately gentleman of great courage and
fidelity. He loved to bark from the second-story windows and around the
South Grounds. Nights he remained in my room and afternoons went with me
to the office. His especial delight was to ride with me in the boats
when I went fishing. So although I know he would bark for joy as the
grim boatman ferried him across the dark waters of the Styx, yet his
going left me lonely on the hither shore.
As I left office I realized that the more I had seen of the workings of
the Federal government the more respect I came to have for it. It is
carried on by hundreds of thousands of people. Some prove incompetent. A
very few are tempted to become disloyal to their trust. But the great
rank and file of them are of good ability, conscientious, and faithful
public servants. While some are paid more than they would earn in
private life, there are great throngs who are serving at a distinct
personal sacrifice. Among the higher officials this is almost always
true. The service they perform entitles them to approbation and honor.
The Congress has sometimes been a sore trial to Presidents. I did not
find it so in my case. Among them were men of wonderful ability and
veteran experience. I think they made their decisions with an honest
purpose to serve their country. The membership of the Senate changed
very much by reason of those who sacrificed themselves for public duty.
Of all public officials with whom I have ever been acquainted, the work
of a Senator of the United States is by far the most laborious. About
twenty of them died during the eight years I was in Washington.
Sometimes it would seem for a day that either the House or the Senate
had taken some unwise action, but if it was not corrected on the floor
where it occurred it was usually remedied in the other chamber. I always
found the members of both parties willing to confer with me and disposed
to treat my recommendations fairly. Most of the differences could be
adjusted by personal discussion. Sometimes I made an appeal direct to
the country by stating my position at the newspaper conferences. I
adopted that course in relation to the Mississippi Flood Control Bill.
As it passed the Senate it appeared to be much too extravagant in its
rule of damages and its proposed remedy. The press began a vigorous
discussion of the subject, which caused the House greatly to modify the
bill, and in conference a measure that was entirely fair and moderate
was adopted. On other occasions I appealed to the country more
privately, enlisting the influence of labor and trade organizations upon
the Congress in behalf of some measures in which I was interested. That
was done in the case of the tax bill of 1928. As it passed the House,
the reductions were so large that the revenue necessary to meet the
public expenses would not have been furnished. By quietly making this
known to the Senate, and enlisting support for that position among their
constituents, it was possible to secure such modification of the measure
that it could be adopted without greatly endangering the revenue.
But a President cannot, with success, constantly appeal to the country.
After a time he will get no response. The people have their own affairs
to look after and can not give much attention to what the Congress is
doing. If he takes a position, and stands by it, ultimately it will be
adopted. Most of the policies set out in my first Annual Message have
become law, but it took several years to get action on some of them.
One of the most perplexing and at the same time most important functions
of the President is the making of appointments. In some few cases he
acts alone, but usually they are made with the advice and consent of the
Senate. It is the practice to consult Senators of his own party before
making an appointment from their state. In choosing persons for service
over the whole or any considerable portion of a single state, it is
customary to rely almost entirely on the party Senators from that state
for recommendations. It is not possible to find men who are perfect.
Selection always has to be limited to human beings, whatever choice is
made. It is therefore always possible to point out defects. The
supposition that no one should be appointed who has had experience in
the field which he is to supervise is extremely detrimental to the
public service. An Interstate Commerce Commissioner is much better
qualified, if he knows something about transportation. A Federal Trade
Commissioner can render much better service if he has had a legal
practice which extended into large business transactions. The assertion
of those who contend that persons accepting a government appointment
would betray their trust in favor of former associates can be understood
only on the supposition that those who make it feel that their own
tenure of public office is for the purpose of benefiting themselves and
their friends.
Every one knows that where the treasure is, there will the heart be
also. When a man has invested his personal interest and reputation in
the conduct of a public office, if he goes wrong it will not be because
of former relations, but because he is a bad man. The same interests
that reached him would reach any bad man, irrespective of former life
history. What we need in appointive positions is men of knowledge and
experience who have sufficient character to resist temptations. If that
standard is maintained, we need not be concerned about their former
activities. If it is not maintained, all the restrictions on their past
employment that can be conceived will be of no avail.
The more experience I have had in making appointments, the more I am
convinced that attempts to put limitations on the appointing power are
a mistake. It should be possible to choose a well qualified person
wherever he can be found. When restrictions are placed on residence,
occupation, or profession, it almost always happens that some one is
found who is universally admitted to be the best qualified, but who is
eliminated by the artificial specifications. So long as the Senate has
the power to reject nominations, there is little danger that a President
would abuse his authority if he were given the largest possible freedom
in his choices. The public service would be improved if all vacancies
were filled by simply appointing the best ability and character that can
be found. That is what is done in private business. The adoption of any
other course handicaps the government in all its operations.
In determining upon all his actions, however, the President has to
remember that he is dealing with two different minds. One is the mind of
the country, largely intent upon its own personal affairs, and, while
not greatly interested in the government, yet desirous of seeing it
conducted in an orderly and dignified manner for the advancement of the
public welfare. Those who compose this mind wish to have the country
prosperous and are opposed to unjust taxation and public extravagance.
At the same time they have a patriotic pride which moves them with so
great a desire to see things well done that they are willing to pay for
it. They gladly contribute their money to place the United States in the
lead. In general, they represent the public opinion of the land.
But they are unorganized, formless, and inarticulate. Against a compact
and well drilled minority they do not appear to be very effective. They
are nevertheless the great power in our government. I have constantly
appealed to them and have seldom failed in enlisting their support. They
are the court of last resort and their decisions are final.
They are, however, the indirect rather than the direct power. The
immediate authority with which the President has to deal is vested in
the political mind. In order to get things done he has to work through
that agency. Some of our Presidents have appeared to lack comprehension
of the political mind. Although I have been associated with it for many
years, I always found difficulty in understanding it. It is a strange
mixture of vanity and timidity, of an obsequious attitude at one time
and a delusion of grandeur at another time, of the most selfish
preferment combined with the most sacrificing patriotism. The political
mind is the product of men in public life who have been twice spoiled.
They have been spoiled with praise and they have been spoiled with
abuse. With them nothing is natural, everything is artificial. A few
rare souls escape these influences and maintain a vision and a judgment
that are unimpaired. They are a great comfort to every President and a
great service to their country. But they are not sufficient in number so
that the public business can be transacted like a private business.
It is because in their hours of timidity the Congress becomes
subservient to the importunities of organized minorities that the
President comes more and more to stand as the champion of the rights of
the whole country. Organizing such minorities has come to be a
well-recognized industry at Washington. They are oftentimes led by
persons of great ability, who display much skill in bringing their
influences to bear on the Congress. They have ways of securing
newspaper publicity, deluging Senators and Representatives with
petitions and overwhelming them with imprecations that are oftentimes
decisive in securing the passage of bills. While much of this
legislation is not entirely bad, almost all of it is excessively
expensive. If it were not for the rules of the House and the veto power
of the President, within two years these activities would double the
cost of the government.
Under our system the President is not only the head of the government,
but is also the head of his party. The last twenty years have witnessed
a decline in party spirit and a distinct weakening in party loyalty.
While an independent attitude on the part of the citizen is not without
a certain public advantage, yet it is necessary under our form of
government to have political parties. Unless some one is a partisan, no
one can be an independent. The Congress is organized entirely in
accordance with party policy. The parties appeal to the voters in behalf
of their platforms. The people make their choice on those issues. Unless
those who are elected on the same party platform associate themselves
together to carry out its provisions, the election becomes a mockery.
The independent voter who has joined with others in placing a party
nominee in office finds his efforts were all in vain, if the person he
helps elect refuses or neglects to keep the platform pledges of his
party.
Many occasions arise in the Congress when party lines are very properly
disregarded, but if there is to be a reasonable government proceeding in
accordance with the express mandate of the people, and not merely at the
whim of those who happen to be victorious at the polls, on all the
larger and important issues there must be party solidarity. It is the
business of the President as party leader to do the best he can to see
that the declared party platform purposes are translated into
legislative and administrative action. Oftentimes I secured support from
those without my party and had opposition from those within my party, in
attempting to keep my platform pledges.
Such a condition is entirely anomalous. It leaves the President as the
sole repository of party responsibility. But it is one of the reasons
that the Presidential office has grown in popular estimation and favor,
while the Congress has declined. The country feels that the President is
willing to assume responsibility, while his party in the Congress is
not. I have never felt it was my duty to attempt to coerce Senators or
Representatives, or to take reprisals. The people sent them to
Washington. I felt I had discharged my duty when I had done the best I
could with them. In this way I avoided almost entirely a personal
opposition, which I think was of more value to the country than to
attempt to prevail through arousing personal fear.
Under our system it ought to be remembered that the power to initiate
policies has to be centralized somewhere. Unless the party leaders
exercising it can depend on loyalty and organization support, the party
in which it is reposed will become entirely ineffective. A party which
is ineffective will soon be discarded. If a party is to endure as a
serviceable instrument of government for the country, it must possess
and display a healthy spirit of party loyalty. Such a manifestation in
the Congress would do more than anything else to rehabilitate it in the
esteem and confidence of the country.
It is natural for man to seek power. It was because of this trait of
human nature that the founders of our institutions provided a system of
checks and balances. They placed all their public officers under
constitutional limitations. They had little fear of the courts and were
inclined to regard legislative bodies as the natural champions of their
liberties. They were very apprehensive that the executive might seek to
exercise arbitrary powers. Under our Constitution such fears seldom have
been well founded. The President has tended to become the champion of
the people because he is held solely responsible for his acts, while in
the Congress where responsibility is divided it has developed that there
is much greater danger of arbitrary action.
It has therefore become increasingly imperative that the President
should resist any encroachment upon his constitutional powers. One of
the most important of these is the power of appointment. The
Constitution provides that he shall nominate, and by and with the advice
and consent of the Senate appoint. A constant pressure is exerted by the
Senators to make their own nominations and the Congress is constantly
proposing laws which undertake to deprive the President of the
appointive power. Different departments and bureaus are frequently
supporting measures that would make them self-perpetuating bodies to
which no appointments could be made that they did not originate. While I
have always sought cooperation and advice, I have likewise resisted
these efforts, sometimes by refusing to adopt recommendations and
sometimes by the exercise of the veto power. One of the farm relief
bills, and later a public health measure, had these clearly
unconstitutional limitations on the power of appointment. In the defense
of the rights and liberties of the people it is necessary for the
President to resist all encroachments upon his lawful authority.
All of these trials and encouragements come to each President. It is
impossible to explain them. Even after passing through the Presidential
office, it still remains a great mystery. Why one person is selected for
it and many others are rejected can not be told. Why people respond as
they do to its influence seems to be beyond inquiry. Any man who has
been placed in the White House can not feel that it is the result of
his own exertions or his own merit. Some power outside and beyond him
becomes manifest through him. As he contemplates the workings of his
office, he comes to realize with an increasing sense of humility that he
is but an instrument in the hands of God.
WHY I DID NOT CHOOSE TO RUN
_CHAPTER SEVEN_
WHY I DID NOT CHOOSE TO RUN
Perhaps I have already indicated some of the reasons why I did not
desire to be a candidate to succeed myself.
The Presidential office takes a heavy toll of those who occupy it and
those who are dear to them. While we should not refuse to spend and be
spent in the service of our country, it is hazardous to attempt what we
feel is beyond our strength to accomplish.
I had never wished to run in 1928 and had determined to make a public
announcement at a sufficiently early date so that the party would have
ample time to choose some one else. An appropriate occasion for that
announcement seemed to be the fourth anniversary of my taking office.
The reasons I can give may not appear very convincing, but I am
confident my decision was correct.
My personal and official relations have all been peculiarly pleasant.
The Congress has not always done all that I wished, but it has done very
little that I did not approve. So far as I can judge, I have been
especially fortunate in having the approbation of the country.
But irrespective of the third-term policy, the Presidential office is of
such a nature that it is difficult to conceive how one man can
successfully serve the country for a term of more than eight years.
While I am in favor of continuing the long-established custom of the
country in relation to a third term for a President, yet I do not think
that the practice applies to one who has succeeded to part of a term as
Vice-President. Others might argue that it does, but I doubt if the
country would so consider it.
Although my own health has been practically perfect, yet the duties are
very great and ten years would be a very heavy strain. It would be
especially long for the Mistress of the White House. Mrs. Coolidge has
been in more than usual good health, but I doubt if she could have
stayed there for ten years without some danger of impairment of her
strength.
A President should not only not be selfish, but he ought to avoid the
appearance of selfishness. The people would not have confidence in a man
that appeared to be grasping for office.
It is difficult for men in high office to avoid the malady of
self-delusion. They are always surrounded by worshipers. They are
constantly, and for the most part sincerely, assured of their greatness.
They live in an artificial atmosphere of adulation and exaltation which
sooner or later impairs their judgment. They are in grave danger of
becoming careless and arrogant.
The chances of having wise and faithful public service are increased by
a change in the Presidential office after a moderate length of time.
It is necessary for the head of the nation to differ with many people
who are honest in their opinions. As his term progresses, the number who
are disappointed accumulates. Finally, there is so large a body who have
lost confidence in him that he meets a rising opposition which makes his
efforts less effective.
In the higher ranges of public service men appear to come forward to
perform a certain duty. When it is performed their work is done. They
usually find it impossible to readjust themselves in the thought of the
people so as to pass on successfully to the solution of new public
problems.
An examination of the records of those Presidents who have served eight
years will disclose that in almost every instance the latter part of
their term has shown very little in the way of constructive
accomplishment. They have often been clouded with grave disappointments.
While I had a desire to be relieved of the pretensions and delusions of
public life, it was not because of any attraction of pleasure or
idleness.
We draw our Presidents from the people. It is a wholesome thing for them
to return to the people. I came from them. I wish to be one of them
again.
Although all our Presidents have had back of them a good heritage of
blood, very few have been born to the purple. Fortunately, they are not
supported at public expense after leaving office, so they are not
expected to set an example encouraging to a leisure class.
They have only the same title to nobility that belongs to all our
citizens, which is the one based on achievement and character, so they
need not assume superiority. It is becoming for them to engage in some
dignified employment where they can be of service as others are.
Our country does not believe in idleness. It honors hard work. I wanted
to serve the country again as a private citizen.
In making my public statement I was careful in the use of words. There
were some who reported that they were mystified as to my meaning when I
said, “I do not choose to run.”
Although I did not know it at the time, months later I found that
Washington said practically the same thing. Certainly he said no more in
his Farewell Address, where he announced that “choice and prudence”
invited him to retire.
There were others who constantly demanded that I should state that if
nominated I would refuse to accept. Such a statement would not be in
accordance with my conception of the requirements of the Presidential
office. I never stated or formulated in my own mind what I should do
under such circumstances, but I was determined not to have that
contingency arise.
I therefore sent the Secretary to the President, Everett Sanders, a man
of great ability and discretion, to Kansas City with instructions to
notify several of the leaders of state delegations not to vote for me.
Had I not done so, I am told, I should have been nominated.
The report that he had talked with me on the telephone after his
arrival, and I had told him I would not accept if nominated, was pure
fabrication. I had no communication with him of any kind after he left
Washington and did not give him any such instruction or message at any
time.
I thought if I could prevent being nominated, which I was able to do, it
would never be necessary for me to decide the other question. But in
order to be perfectly free, I sent this notice, so that if I declined no
one could say I had misled him into supposing that I was willing to
receive his vote.
I felt sure that the party and the country were in so strong a position
that they could easily nominate and elect some other candidate. The
events have confirmed my judgment.
In the primary campaign I was careful to make it known that I was not
presenting any candidate. The friends of several of them no doubt
represented that their candidate was satisfactory to me, which was true
as far as it went.
I can conceive a situation in which a President might be warranted in
exercising the influence of his office in selecting his successor. That
condition did not exist in the last primary. The party had plenty of
material, which was available, and the candidate really should be the
choice of the people themselves. This is especially so now that so many
of the states have laws for the direct expression of the choice of the
voters.
A President in office can do very much about the nomination of his
successor, because of his influence with the convention, but the feeling
that he had forced a choice would place the nominee under a heavy
handicap.
When the convention assembles it is almost certain that it will look
about to see what candidate has made the largest popular showing, and
unless some peculiar disqualification develops it will nominate him.
That was what happened in the last convention, although no one had a
majority when the convention assembled.
A strong group of the party in and outside of the Senate made the
mistake of undertaking to oppose Mr. Hoover with a large number of local
candidates, which finally resulted in their not developing enough
strength for any particular candidate to make a showing sufficient to
impress the convention.
Although I did not intimate in any way that I would not accept the
nomination, when I sent word to the heads of certain unpledged state
delegations not to vote for me, they very naturally turned to Mr.
Hoover, which brought about his nomination on the first ballot.
The Presidential office differs from everything else. Much of it cannot
be described, it can only be felt. After I had considered the reasons
for my being a candidate on the one side and on the other, I could not
say that any of them moved me with compelling force.
My election seemed assured. Nevertheless, I felt it was not best for the
country that I should succeed myself. A new impulse is more likely to be
beneficial.
It was therefore my privilege, after seeing my administration so
strongly indorsed by the country, to retire voluntarily from the
greatest experience that can come to mortal man. In that way, I believed
I could best serve the people who have honored me and the country which
I love.
THE END
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