He had made it clear in the English Opera House speech that he would abide by the will of the majority. Believing as he did that the public interest is wrapped up in the success of the general underlying principles of the Democratic party, he was unwilling, because of his disagreement with some one plank in the platform in any one campaign to be a party to the wrecking of the organization. That alone, and his willingness to abide by the will of the majority, would have kept him within the party and at its service.

But it was not long until he had other grounds for actively espousing the cause of the party under the leadership of Mr. Bryan. The instant rallying of the Black Horse Cavalry of the special interests against him, the methods of open intimidation and coercion of workingmen, the political blackmailing of bank depositors, the collection and distribution of a corruption fund never before thought of in American history soon gave to the conflict the aspect of a battle between plutocracy and democracy. The silver question became a mere incident in the struggle. It carried with it other issues to which he was ardently attached—the income tax, the popular election of senators, the protection of workingmen from the coercion of their employers at the polls, the correction of the evils of the injunction. On the broader issues of that campaign he threw himself with his customary zest into the fight. Early in the campaign he met Mr. Bryan for the first time. In his interview he made it bluntly known that before the convention he had fought against silver, and his frankness and directness at that time so won the confidence and respect of The Commoner that he said he “could ask no stronger support.” He emerged from the campaign stronger with the masses of the party than ever before, and more than ever convinced that in view of the sinister trend of the times the wrecking of the party would have been one of the greatest tragedies in American history.

CHAPTER VII
Gubernatorial Battles

I

THE Democratic leaders in Indiana approached the campaign of 1900 with a feeling of considerable pessimism. The disaffected element which had left the party in 1896 on the money issue had not yet returned to the fold, and it seemed improbable that the white-heat enthusiasm of Mr. Bryan’s following in his first campaign could be maintained. The election of 1898 had brought no rift in the clouds, and the party in power seemed hopelessly entrenched. With conditions prosperous, our armies but recently victorious, our possessions increased through the acquisition of Porto Rico and the Philippines, with all the pomp and circumstances of a national triumph with an enemy waving the flag, the Democratic party was about to make its appeal to the people on an abstract question of political morals. We were to discuss the wrongs of a people thousands of miles distant, of another race and color, of whom hundreds of thousands of Americans had never heard. And while these wrongs could not inevitably react upon our own people the practical politician and psychologist of the stump was painfully conscious of the difficulty of making that point sufficiently impressive. Under these circumstances there was no great demand for places on the state ticket, and as late as the first of May no one had manifested any desire to lead the party as its candidate for governor. About the first of May, Frank B. Burke announced his candidacy. He was in many respects one of the most remarkable men in the political history of the state, at times under the proper inspiration thrillingly eloquent, courageous as a lion, and possessed of a personality that endeared him to friend and foe alike. As United States district attorney under Cleveland he had won the admiration of the bench and bar and made an impression upon the people in the streets. But with all his splendid qualities he was lacking in one of the essentials of safe leadership—he was utterly deficient in tact and always preferred a fight to a compromise. In brief he was a genius with all that that sometimes implies of weakness.

At that time I was writing editorials on The Sentinel, and, being one of Burke’s youthful idolaters, I wrote a fervent editorial eulogy on the day of his announcement and took it to Samuel E. Morss, the editor and former consul-general to Paris, for his approval. He read it with evident amusement and tactfully suggested that while Mr. Burke was a brilliant and able man, there might be other candidates and it would not be advisable for The Sentinel to take such a pronounced stand that early. I did not know at the time, being scarcely out of my teens, that the “organization” forces were bending every effort to persuade Mr. Kern to enter the lists. The first choice of the organization was Mayor Taggart, who persisted in his refusal to make the race. It was then that the politicians turned to Kern.

Independent of politicians associated with what may be described as “the organization” were scores of Democrats throughout the state, personal friends and admirers of Mr. Kern, who were insisting that he become a candidate. He had made up his mind definitely that he would not. Aside from the unattractiveness of the political prospects he had personal reasons for preferring to stay out. But with the announcement of Burke, who was not popular with the “organization,” and the resulting necessity for an early challenge of his candidacy, the forces at that time predominate in the Democratic party in the state centered with practical unanimity upon Kern.

On the evening of May 15 The Indianapolis News carried the item that “Last night influential Democrats were in conference at the home of Samuel E. Morss, editor of The Sentinel, until after midnight, and it is taken for granted that they were discussing the platform on which Kern will conduct his campaign.”

It was not the first time that newspapers have misinterpreted the purpose of a conference of