Woodrow Wilson as I Know Him

E-text prepared by Anne Soulard, Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Robert
Laporte, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
To the memory of my dear mother Alicia Tumulty whose spirit of generosity, loyalty, and tolerance I trust will be found in the lines of this book
In preparing this volume I have made use of portions of the following books: The War The World and Wilson by George Creel; What Wilson Did at Paris, by Ray Stannard Baker; Woodrow Wilson and His Work by William E. Dodd; The Panama Canal Tolls Controversy by Hugh Gordon Miller and Joseph C. Freehoff; Woodrow Wilson the Man and His Work by Henry Jones Ford; The Real Colonel House by Arthur D. Howden Smith; The Foreign Policy of Woodrow Wilson by Edgar E. Robinson and Victor J. West. In addition, I wish to make acknowledgment to the following books for incidental assistance: My Four Years in Germany by James W. Gerard; Woodrow Wilson, An Interpretation by A. Maurice Low; A People Awakened by Charles Reade Bacon; Woodrow Wilson by Hester E. Hosford; What Really Happened at Paris, edited by Edward Mandell House and Charles Seymour, and above all, to the public addresses of Woodrow Wilson. I myself had furnished considerable data for various books on Woodrow Wilson and have felt at liberty to make liberal use of some portions of these sources as guide posts for my own narrative.
Woodrow Wilson prefers not to be written about. His enemies may, and of course will, say what they please, but he would like to have his friends hold their peace. He seems to think and feel that if he himself can keep silent while his foes are talking, his friends should be equally stoical. He made this plain in October, 1920, when he learned that I had slipped away from my office at the White House one night shortly before the election and made a speech about him in a little Maryland town, Bethesda. He did not read the speech, I am sure he has never read it, but the fact that I had made any sort of speech about him, displeased him. That was one of the few times in my long association with him that I found him distinctly cold. He said nothing, but his silence was vocal.