I was then, in fact, aware only that I was seated between two men of strong and mutually unsympathetic natures; and that they seemed equally to feel this natural antagonism. Wilson revealed it by his request that he be allowed to speak last: he plainly wished to study his rival before he made his own oratorical appearance. Borah was even more palpably depressed by the presence, at the same table with him, of this strange, new, powerful personality, whose glittering intellect and polished manner were so strikingly contrasted with his own blunter, though, in their way, also powerful weapons and character. The Senator was so disturbed by this impact with Wilson’s personality that his own speech of the evening fell far below his usual high standard. He himself was so deeply impressed with this deficiency that twice afterward he recalled to me his comparative failure of that evening. These two men thus seemed predestined to a combat which with natures so intense and powerful could be nothing less than mortal. When, in 1920, Wilson lost (as I believe, only for the moment) his gallant campaign for the League of Nations, and fell truly a soldier stricken on the field of battle, partly because of blows that were dealt by Senator Borah, I could not but revert in memory to the vivid picture of that evening in New York in 1911, when the two men met and took each other’s measure.
They were not alone in this measuring of mettle. Governor Wilson’s speech of that evening was a revelation to all of us who listened. We saw in him a man of lofty idealism, and a knightly spirit; his convictions grounded on the secure foundation of a deep study of governmental institutions, and of the history of the human race; his political philosophy erected symmetrically upon these firm foundations; its façade adorned with a beautiful conception of democracy and justice as the ideals of political endeavour. I, for one, felt that here truly was an inspired leader behind whom all men like myself could range themselves and know that their efforts to advance his fortunes would be an effective participation in the highest form of public service.
My own acceptance of his leadership was instant and decisive. I asked him whether he was really a candidate for President of the United States, and told him that I had a definite object in asking him the question. I was delighted with his reply. Looking me squarely in the eye, he said: “I know a great deal more about the United States than I do about New Jersey.”
“Governor,” I said, “my object in asking you this question was to offer my unreserved moral and financial support of your candidacy.”
The enthusiastic impression I gained upon that evening was confirmed and strengthened two days later, when I attended the dinner of the National Democratic Club, at which the Governor was again a guest of honour. Here, again, he made a speech that was heartening to all who sought leadership in the struggle for the regeneration of America.
Let me remind my readers what the political situation was in 1911. That situation should be recalled in the light of the preceding fourteen years. In that period (which began with the election of William McKinley as President in 1896), the United States had passed through one of the most momentous epochs in its political history. The election of McKinley by the Republicans, under the leadership of Mark Hanna, marked the culmination of thirty years of materialistic growth in this country—three decades in which the energies of the people were absorbed in the conquest of the West, in the building of our gigantic railroad system, and in the magician-like creation of our stupendous manufacturing industries. Pittsburgh was almost the new capital of a new nation, with its marvellous development of iron and steel. It was followed closely by the great manufacturing centres that sprang up in New York, New England, the Middle West, and Alabama. Monstrous fortunes grew up over night from the exploitation of our natural resources, our boundless supplies of coal, iron, oil, zinc, and lead. Masters of industry, like Carnegie and Rockefeller, amassed gold beyond the wildest dreams of even gem-laden Oriental potentates. Masters of transportation like Commodore Vanderbilt and James J. Hill created new empires for the residence of man, and gathered to themselves princely fortunes. Masters of finance, like J. Pierpont Morgan, sat at the golden headwaters of national enterprise, directing the fertilizing streams of credit, and, by taking toll of them as they passed, accumulated an imperial revenue. Below these men were nameless thousands, of only less ability, aping the masters, and dipping with feverish hands into the golden flood. Mingled with these builders were pick-pockets of finance, pirates of promotion, and skulking jackals of commerce. But—all alike were money-mad. From the Morgans and Hills and Rockefellers and Carnegies, who wrought with far-seeing vision, down to the shopkeepers and smallest manufacturers, nine men in ten were absorbed in the game of riches.
Politics, too, had become infected. Public honours were no longer heaped upon patriots and statesmen: the proudest title of distinction was to be called “a captain of industry.” The best brains of the country had been drained out of the public service into business life. Men who, in other days, would have led great public causes, were now presidents of great corporations. Their intellects were taxed to the last limit in the fierce struggle of competition. Their characters were formed and hardened into the inflexible will and ruthless determination of commanders of vast competitive business armies. Men like Morgan, upon whose shoulders rested the responsibility for billions of invested capital, brooked no obstacle that threatened for an instant the security of these vast aggregations of money, nor anything that would stand in the way of their continuous return of profit.
Such gigantic financial operations inevitably affected those inter-relationships of the people which are expressed in law; and organized government soon confronted the danger of being swallowed by organized business. By the close of McKinley’s first administration, government, indeed, had become practically a vassal of business, little better than another instrument of power in the hands of the leaders of industry. Legislation was bought like merchandise; lawmakers and administrators of law were corrupted. Politics had become an almost disreputable profession. Lobbyists of the most odious type flaunted their trade publicly. To the high-minded elements of the community it seemed as if the nation were sliding down the declivity of destruction to share the fate of Rome.
I was myself fresh from this seething caldron of materialistic competition, and I knew personally the men and the methods of Big Business, so that I had occasion to appreciate more keenly than most people the reality of the danger which confronted the nation.
To us perplexed political idealists the country over, who looked on with apprehension at this death grapple between the soul of the people and the ugly octopus of Big Business, the appearance of Woodrow Wilson on the horizon seemed a very act of Providence. Here at last was the leader: the man who, thinking our thoughts, sharing our visions, brought to us the promise of a political personality under whose banner we could range ourselves, organize our enthusiasm, and take fresh hope for redemption.