University of Virginia Library

1. STILL-HUNTS AND STOLEN MARCHES.

Being the remarks of "Bill" Bradley, former legislator, congressman, Governor and United States Senator, to his younger friend Ned, who has written that he has a cinch on a re-election and that he proposes to take it easy in this campaign, as there is no need of hustling. Incidentally the retired "party warhorse" expresses himself on the irksomeness of "existence by corporate courtesy" and the delights of retirement.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

Of course I'm glad that nothing short of an epidemic of sudden death can shut you out of a re-election. It's good to be comfortably sure about things of this sort.

But my observation reminds me that straight roads to the State House have an amazing way of wandering off into the underbrush and that public sentiment can blow more different ways, at one and the same time, than the flame of a campaign torch in a Fall wind. Any good, average ballot-box has thrown down more cock-sure men than ever won election bets or saw the man that struck Billy Patterson. And you may draw sight drafts against the fact that when there's a whole lot depending on one of these Heaven-insured "certainties" it's time to get scared and hustle.

The man who lies down and goes to sleep on the soft side of a political cinch stands a good chance of waking up just in time to see his hide nailed to the barn door by the fellow who couldn't sleep because he had to whistle in the face of expected defeat in order to keep his courage up.

Perhaps you've forgotten the story of "Old Gab" Hitchcock, down in Hebron County. He got his name from his "gift of gab" on the auction block. There hadn't been a sale "at public vendue" in his territory for thirty years at which he hadn't officiated. He could talk the burrs right off the back of a Southdown sheep; but there were two subjects on which he was as silent as a tombstone.

Politics and religion tied knots in his tongue and when they were mentioned he closed up tight. But he knew the name of every baby in the three counties that he traveled and how many teeth each youngone had cut up to the time of his last call; he never failed to remember the special brand of cookery on which each housewife was particularly strong, and even the savagest dogs wagged their tails in a friendly way when Old Gab rode in at the front bars.

But when it came to politics, everybody counted the auctioneer out and considered that he didn't cut any figure. In fact, being a Republican, he seldom took the trouble to vote, as Democrats were thicker in his district than thistles, and voting was mighty discouraging exercise. He said he was glad he was on the off side and belonged to the "hopeless minority," because it saved him the bother of going to caucuses and the polls, knowing that his party didn't stand any more chance to get out alive than a national prohibition bill in Congress.

One Winter, as you will remember, there was a deadlock in the legislature on the election of a United States Senator. An actual gain of one vote on the Republican side would have settled it; but sometimes one bird is harder to bag than a whole flock on other occasions—and this was one of those times!

Day after day, and month after month, the thing hung fire. All that money and pull and poker and highballs could do had been done—and still the joint ballot stuck at the same old figure! The shiftiest campaigners that ever cracked the party whip had done their best and couldn't budge the count. Every dark horse in each party had his ears pricked up and was ready to snort like a freight engine the minute there was a sign of a break. But no sign was given, and the big bosses simply held on, waiting for something to happen and lift the spell.

And, finally, it happened all right! One morning the member from Hebron County was found dead in his bed. That left the situation just where it was before, for the Republicans still lacked one vote of enough to elect and the Democrats had a three-to-one cinch on electing the member to fill the vacancy.

A special election was called, but the Republican newspapers sorrowfully announced that there was no more hope of defeating the enemy in the Hebron district than of raising the late lamented to life. And the minority party didn't take interest enough in the contest to name a candidate—simply conceded the whole thing to the Democrats and lay down without a kick. Of course, that was in the days before the new-fangled Australian ballot had entered its appearance on the state statutes.

Spring plowing opened up particularly early that year and the contest for the United States Senatorship had dragged along through the Winter until it had become an old story.

Generally speaking, there was more interest in the farming counties in getting in a new crop than in sending a new Senator to Washington.

About that time, down in the Hebron district, auction sales fell off to such an extent that Old Gab Hitchcock had to take to shipping cattle in order to keep up his end, and he did a right smart bit of riding in his new calling. There wasn't a road in Hebron or the adjoining counties that he didn't travel and he managed to pick up an amazing number of shipments of likely cattle for the Chicago market.

When the special election day came he was out in the back towns buying stock, and most of the farmers of the district were walking in furrows behind their plows. They knew that their candidate, the Democrat, had a copper-riveted cinch on the election, for there was no one running against him. So they stuck to their Spring plowing and made the most of the fine weather.

But about 4 o'clock that afternoon, the Republican voters began to rattle out of the back towns as if the woods were on fire. It took an hour for the Democrats at the polling places to get their systems permeated with the suspicion that something was doing—and by the time they had waked up, it was all done!

They sent out an alarm to the Faithful, but before the stay-at-homes could pull their boots on and hitch up the teams, the polls had closed. There wasn't even time to put up a counting-out scheme—and when the ballots were counted a district of frantic Democrats faced the fact that foxy Old Gab Hitchcock had been elected to the legislature on the Republican ticket.

The first day he took his seat he settled the United States Senatorship—and went out of the auction business for keeps! The party, as you know, has taken good care of him ever since, and he doesn't care how many babies are cutting teeth back in old Hebron, either!

Then, again, after you've hustled hard and got everything into your wigwam, snug and tight, you can't be sure that the other fellow will not sneak in, over night, and stampede all your braves.

If you don't think this is true, remember the history of Old Sanctity, who tried to break into politics up in the city, from Little Danny's ward. There was a healthy colored population in that ward and the old man had been running a mission Sunday School and private bureau of charity so long there that he thought it was easy. He wanted to shine as a white-enamel reformer, and so he opened the campaign early and held meetings every night in the Heart of Africa. To all appearances, he had the whole colony spellbound, and it looked as if he would carry the Dark Continent with a whoop.

There wasn't enough political guile in the old man to keep him from opening a mass meeting with family prayers, and it was all his campaign committee could do to get postage funds and hall rent out of him. At his final pow-wow fully three hundred kinky-haired voters were present.

Old Sanctity, as the boys called him, dismissed the meeting with a smile of satisfaction and the feeling that the Mission School had been vindicated as a political power.

But down at the bottom of the stairs Little Danny had stationed a few business agents whose pockets bulged with half dollars. An hour later the whole dusky gang was gathered at a banquet of pork chops and fried chicken, across the street, and every guest at the board had one of Danny's fifty-cent pieces in his pocket. After the votes were counted Old Sanctity hardly knew whether he had been a candidate or not.

Of course it wasn't clean politics for Danny to do this, and I only mention it to point the moral that certainties in politics are about as slippery propositions as greased pigs at county fairs, and that is isn't safe to carry elections on the somnambulistic basis.

There's a good deal more human nature than patriotism in the average citizen and when you bill him on any other valuation you're going to have a big shrinkage in the ballot box.

Livery hire and hustlers are cheap in comparison with eloquence and exalted hopes, and the man who calculates to keep in politics and come out on the heavy side of the polling list would better make up his mind to spend his money for buggy grease before the polls close instead of saving it for red fire and Roman candles with which to celebrate his election.

So, Ned, if you've decided to take things easy, and let the campaign "take care of itself" this time, as your letter suggests, it will not be necessary to wire me that the enemy put up a still hunt or there has been an unaccountable landslide "owing to a revulsion of sentiment on national issues," and that you have gone down as a victim of the revolt of the people against the "stubborn attitude of the party leaders on the tariff question." I'll understand, without this, that you've been catching up on the sleep you lost in the other campaigns.

You want to know if I don't sometimes have a hankering for the flesh-pots of Egypt and long to take a little hand in politics out here. Not by a jug full! A fellow who has put in the best years of his life in the political game and has been state legislator, Congressman, Governor and United States Senator and retired when he didn't have to isn't going out to a new country and begin the game all over again—not at my time of life. I'm out of it for good and all. I'm just a plain man and elected for life, too!

You remember how old General Gully used to look when he came out to the annual encampment ball in full regalia, with his breast hung with badges and medals so thick they looked as if they had been pinned on with a choke-bore shotgun? Well; one day when I was cleaning up to get out of the Executive Chamber, I struck the "Frank and Pass Department" of my desk. Just for fun, I pinned those badges of corporate courtesy on the front of my coat. Alongside the picture which I made, old Gully would have looked as innocent of decorations as an eel. It made me squirm with shame as I looked in the glass and actually saw that I had been simply an official scrapbook for petty corporation favors.

By checking up I found that I did not hold a frank entitling me to breathe through the courtesy of a corporation.

Perhaps you don't recall how the harness of official favors used to gall me. Let me refresh your memory. Of course you remember John Bent, the "hired hand" member from Cottonwood Corners. All through the first session he sat over at the Speaker's right, surrounded by the gang that came down from the city. When they found out that he was only a farm hand, the boys who were running things priced him at about two hundred and fifty. Little Danny was told off to fix John for the Electric bill. He never did give the particulars of his interview, but he put it plain that for all time to come it would be safe to pass up the farm hand and put him down on the other side without any special effort to "see" him.

Bent didn't introduce but one bill in the whole session and that was killed quicker than a water snake in a swimming hole. From that time on, the member from Cottonwood Corners had just one interest in legislation: to know what bills were off color and vote against them. He didn't make a single speech or offer a resolution; but he could spot a crooked streak behind a bill as quick as he'd smell a taint in a batch of butter. That was enough for Bent. Whatever happened, one thing was sure: John would "vote right."

I don't know that he made any particular profession of religion but he stood square on everything according to the gospel rule, without a shadow of turning.

Although he didn't give it out through the papers, he actually returned all passes and franks and he didn't ask for the appointment of a single committee clerk or assistant janitor. All he did was to "vote right," and he came back again for three terms.

I used to sit there and envy the man from Cottonwood, who had no sails to trim, no measures to push, no backs to scratch.

One day I pointed him out to you and said: "There's about the only 'real man' here."

You know I've kept my "hands clean," Ned, but like the boy in the story, I've had to bandage them and tie them to the bedpost a good many times to do it. And when it comes to trimming sails—well, I have a training that would fit me for Commodore on a Cup Challenger.

But it's all over now! I'm going to bow the knee to no living person excepting the wife and the house servants. The rest of the world will get its toes tramped on whenever the humor takes me.

And you can put it down on the title page, old boy, that hereafter I'm going to pay the freight—and pay it in hard money! No more "existence by courtesy" for me!

Some time, perhaps, you'll come out from among them, too, and be separate, return your passes and taste the joy of being able to pay for what you get—like the men who sign the passes and put up the campaign funds.

But if you're determined to play the game to the finish, you know you can count on me for any side-lights I can give. Unless you get out voluntarily, I want to see you win out; and every forward step in your career will give me as much pleasure as it will you. I guess I don't need to say that, do I, Ned?

By the way, are you still keeping company with Kate Hamming? or have you switched to the young widow ? From some of the letters that come to the wife, I figure that politics isn't the only game that interests you. Come now, 'fess up and make a clean breast of it!

  

Yours as ever,
	William Bradley.