“Crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
That thrift might follow fawning.”
He had but one ambition now, and that was so to live as a public man that the verdict of the nation might be: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
That first term in Congress was judiciously utilized by William McKinley. He knew, with that prescience which belongs to the truly great, that this was his field, that he would return to it, that no small considerations of oppositions and repeated elections could keep him from the fulfillment of that duty, the discharge of that task, for which all his life had been but preparation.
In the first session he made no speech. He was not even on a committee of importance. But his known position as a protectionist made him a man to be consulted, and his quickly recognized ability made him—a first termer—share in the shaping of legislation.
That was a Democratic Congress, with Samuel J. Randall in the speaker’s chair. And the young man from Ohio waited at the portals of opportunity, making himself ready for the day when they should open and admit him.
He made a speech on the floor of the house. He was little considered by the superficial and unthinking. Yet they confessed in committee the influence of his quiet power. He made himself master of every detail. He knew all that was to be known about the subjects that came before him and his confreres. And in a courteous, dignified but effective manner he said the right word in due season, and every man of them felt the presence of greatness.
His first speech was delivered in the spring of 1878. The question of tariff had loomed large in the eyes of the nation. It had been made an issue. No man could escape it. Seekers for popular applause, for the present profits that might be secured, exhausted themselves coining verbal assaults on the policy of protection. The men on the Democratic side, east and west, were almost a unit for a revision which meant a repeal. The time came later when most eastern Democrats took issue with their brothers from the West, as to the wisdom of protection. But in that day the strongest assault was made by a New York man—Fernando Wood.
He was one of the ablest Democrats in Congress. A sharp, shrewd man, plausible in his address, skillful in his arraignment, and attractive as a debater. He had, in his bill, reflected well the popular clamor of demagogues throughout the country who could not see the demands or the possibilities of the future. And the Wood tariff bill was sailing serene through the lower house, its friends jubilant, its supporters becoming jealous of the lucky New Yorker—when, one day William McKinley, of Ohio, got the floor, and began an argument against the bill. That frightened no one. They wanted some opposition. They wanted the sport of a game fight, since they were sure they could not be defeated.
But when they had listened fifteen minutes they saw this young man, this unconsidered legislator, was master of the province upon which they had entered. He knew far more about the industrial and commercial conditions of the country than did they. He was infinitely better equipped than they in the matter of economics. And he coined his ideas in sentences so impressive that the jealous men were comforted. They were not frightened on account of the bill, for they were confident in the possession of an invincible majority. But they saw Fernando Wood at last had a foeman worthy of his steel.