Two distinguished English visitors to America, keen students and historians of social movements, expressed a desire to learn of the methods of Tammany Hall from someone in its inner councils. A luncheon with a well-known and continuous officeholder was arranged by a mutual friend. When my interest was first aroused in the political life of the city this man’s position in the party had been cited as an example of the astuteness of the “Boss.” He had revolted against certain conditions and had shown remarkable ability in building up an opposition within the party. Ever after he had enjoyed unchallenged some high-salaried office.
Under the genial influence of our host, and perhaps because he felt secure with the English guests, the “Judge” (he had at one time presided in an inferior court) talked freely of the details about which they were curious,—how the organization tested the loyalty of its members and increased their power and prestige as their record warranted it, giving, incidentally, an interesting glimpse of the human elements in the great political machine. His own success as judge he attributed to the fact that he had used common sense where his highly educated colleagues would have used textbooks, and with keen appreciation of the humor of the situation he told how, when he was sworn in, a distinguished jurist said he had come to his court “to see Judge ⸺ dispense with justice.” He defended the logic, from the “Boss’s” point of view, of efficiently administering such patronage as was available, and made much of the kindness to the poor that was possible because of the district control. Comparing their own with what he supposed to be my attitude to the poor, he added with a smile of comprehension, “It’s the same thing, only we keep books.”
A political organization watchful to capture personal loyalty makes dramatic appeal, the potency of which cannot be ignored. The speedy release of young offenders from jail was, years ago, the most impressive demonstration of beneficent influence, and it was whispered that district leaders were notified by the police of arrests, that they might have an opportunity to get the young men out of trouble. Certain it is that several times when anxious relatives rushed to us for help we found that the leader had been as promptly notified as the families themselves.
So much genuine kindness is entwined with the administration of this district control that one can well comprehend the loyalty that it wins; and it is not the poor, jobless man who, at election times, remembers favors of whom we are critical.
Opposed to the solidarity of the long dominant party are the other party organizations and numerous cliques of radicals, independents, and reformers. These, when the offenses of the party in power become most flagrant, unite, and New York is temporarily freed from “boss” rule, to enjoy a respite of “reform administration.” Into such “moral campaigns” the House on Henry Street has always entered, and sometimes it has helped to initiate them, though steadily refusing to be brought officially into a political party or faction. Indeed, it would be impossible to range residents or club members under one political banner. As is natural in so large a group, nearly every shade of political faith is represented.
A large proportion of the young people who come to the settlements are attracted to the independent political movements, and are likely to respond to appeals to their civic conscience. While serving on a State Commission I heard an upstate colleague repeat the rumor that Governor Hughes, then a candidate for re-election, was to be knifed by his party. We had seen in our section of the city no active campaign on his behalf. Posters, pictures, and flattering references were conspicuously absent. Governor Hughes had made a profound impression upon all but the advocates of rigid party control because of his high-minded integrity and emancipation from “practical” political methods. I telephoned two or three of our young men that the time seemed ripe for some action in our neighborhood. In an incredibly short time a small group of Democrats, Republicans, and Socialists gathered in the sitting-room of the Henry Street house, and within twenty-four hours an Independent League was formed to bring the Governor’s candidacy before the neighborhood. Financial and moral support came from other friends, and before the end of the week he addressed in Clinton Hall an enthusiastic mass-meeting organized by this league without help from the members of his own political organization.
The sporadic attempts of good citizens to organize for reform have, I am sure, given practical politicians food for merriment. One election night, dispirited because of the defeat of an upright and able man, I was about to enter the settlement when one of the district leaders said: “Your friends don’t play the game intelligently. You telephone them to-night to begin to organize if they want to beat us next election. You got to begin early and stick to it.”
However, every sincere reform campaign is valuable because of its immediate and far-reaching educational effect, even when the candidates fail of election. It is gratifying to those who are socially interested to watch the evolution of political platforms. Every party now inserts human welfare planks and pledges devotion to measures that in the days of our initiation were regarded as dreams and ridiculed as beyond the realm of practicality. Settlements have increasing authority because of the persistency of their interest in social welfare measures. They accumulate in their daily routine significant facts obtainable in no other way. Governors and legislators listen, and sooner or later act on the representations of responsible advocates whose facts are current and trustworthy. The experience of the social worker is often utilized by the state. At the twentieth anniversary of our settlement the Mayor drew public attention to the fact that no less than five important city departments were intrusted to men and one woman who were qualified for public duty by administration of or long-continued association with the settlements.
Soon after our removal to Henry Street in 1895 messengers from the “Association,” the important political club of the district, brought lanterns and flags with which we were requested to decorate in honor of a clambake to be given the next day. The event had been glaringly and expensively advertised for some time. The marchers were to pass our house in the morning and on their return in the evening. The young men glowed with the excitement of their recital, and I can still see the blank look of non-comprehension that passed over their faces when I tried to soften refusal by explaining—lamely, I fear—our reasons for avoiding the implications of participation. The courteous district leader of the other great party was equally at sea when, a short time after, he brought flags and decorations for their more humble celebration and met with the same refusal. The immediate conclusion appeared to be that we were enemies or “reformers,” and the charge was held against us.
The gay and spirited clambake parade, with its bands and flying banners, the shooting rockets and loud applause of the friends of the marchers, had passed by when we were drawn to the windows to gaze upon another procession. Straggling, unkempt, dispirited-looking marchers returned our scrutiny and held aloft a banner bearing the legend “Socialist Labor Party,” the portrait of a man, and beneath it the name “Daniel De Leon.”