"As Michael Wolraich argues in his sharp, streamlined new book, Unreasonable Men, it was 'the greatest period of political change in American history.'" -Washington Post, 50 Notable Works of Nonfiction
At the turn of the twentieth century, the Republican Party stood at the brink of an internal civil war. After a devastating financial crisis, furious voters sent a new breed of politician to Washington. These young Republican firebrands, led by "Fighting Bob" La Follette of Wisconsin, vowed to overthrow the party leaders and purge Wall Street's corrupting influence from Washington. Their opponents called them "radicals," and "fanatics." They called themselves Progressives.
President Theodore Roosevelt disapproved of La Follette's confrontational methods. Fearful of splitting the party, he compromised with the conservative House Speaker, "Uncle Joe" Cannon, to pass modest reforms. But as La Follette's crusade gathered momentum, the country polarized, and the middle ground melted away. Three years after the end of his presidency, Roosevelt embraced La Follette's militant tactics and went to war against the Republican establishment, bringing him face to face with his handpicked successor, William Taft. Their epic battle shattered the Republican Party and permanently realigned the electorate, dividing the country into two camps: Progressive and Conservative.
Unreasonable Men takes us into the heart of the epic power struggle that created the progressive movement and defined modern American politics. Recounting the fateful clash between the pragmatic Roosevelt and the radical La Follette, Wolraich's riveting narrative reveals how a few Republican insurgents broke the conservative chokehold on Congress and initiated the greatest period of political change in America's history.
|Publisher:||St. Martin's Press|
|Product dimensions:||6.10(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.30(d)|
About the Author
Michael Wolraich is a political journalist and historian, author of Blowing Smoke, and co-founder of the political blog dagblog.com. His writing has appeared at The Atlantic, The Daily Beast, CNN, Reuters, Talking Points Memo, and Pando Daily. He has also appeared on C-SPAN's BookTV, The John Batchelor Show, Culture Shocks, and various radio shows across the country. He lives in New York City.
Read an Excerpt
Theodore Roosevelt and the Republican Rebels who Created Progressive Politics
By Michael Wolraich
Palgrave MacmillanCopyright © 2014 Michael Wolraich
All rights reserved.
Oh, pshaw! It seems to be coming about that this country is divided into two parts — the republic of the United States and Wisconsin.
— Uncle Joe
MADISON, WISCONSIN, MAY 18, 1904
Even without the barbed wire, the old brick gymnasium looked like a fortress. A fat red turret squatted at each corner of the building; six slender ones overlooked the parapets and gables. The huge wooden doors that sealed the entrances were tall enough for giants and studded with nails. Standing at the edge of a broad blue lake, the "Red Gym" seemed sturdy enough to protect the University of Wisconsin from Vikings, sea monsters, and other menaces.
Politicians were another matter. They stormed the gymnasium by land one sunny spring day in 1904. Lightly armored in straw skimmer hats and convention badges, the "Stalwarts" advanced toward the citadel, hoping to overwhelm the enemy by force of numbers. Curious housewives stepped out in their aprons to watch them march down the road, four abreast waving two large American flags.
The "Half-Breed" defenders were ready for them. Two parallel fences tipped with barbed wire formed a narrow corridor into the gymnasium. A phalanx of large men guarded the entrance — football players, blacksmiths, cops, and Evan "the Strangler" Lewis, a world champion wrestler. When the Stalwart vanguard reached the perimeter, their ranks broke in confusion. Only those with proper credentials to the Wisconsin Republican convention were allowed to enter the building. Many would-be invaders carried counterfeit badges; a missing stroke in the signature gave them away. They shouted and scuffled as the Half-Breed gatekeepers shoved them aside.
The Stalwart delegates with legitimate badges filed through the passage and took their seats on the gym floor. They were outnumbered now, but the Half-Breeds took no chances. More musclemen moved into position around suspected Stalwart rabble-rousers and made sure that they didn't leave their seats. Governor Robert Marion La Follette had ordered a peaceful convention — no riots, no stampedes.
Another wire fence separated the delegates from a mass of roaring spectators crammed shoulder-to-shoulder on the far side of the gym. Intrepid university students perched on the ceiling girders and roared out a football cheer:
Cheer! Boys, cheer! La Follette's got the ball!
U-rah-ah! Oh, won't they take a fall?
For when we hit their line they'll have no line at all!
There'll be a hot time in Wisconsin tonight, my baby!
The man they celebrated was no football star. Five-foot-five and nearly 50 years old with a slight paunch, his only helmet was a thick reddish-brown pompadour that sprouted mushroomlike from his scalp. "Fighting Bob" La Follette was the governor of Wisconsin, champion of the Half-Breeds faction, and, in the eyes of his Stalwart enemies, a dangerous radical.
Wisconsin's governors were expected to defer to the state's powerful party bosses and wealthy industrialists, but Governor La Follette was not like the others. Instead of relying on Republican bosses to nominate him at state conventions, he wanted the voters to select candidates in primary elections. Instead of granting favors to the railroad and lumber industries, he endeavored to tax their profits, regulate their activities, and prevent their lobbyists from meddling in politics.
Such radical ideas did not sit well with the bosses of the Republican machine. Wisconsin was booming. As America's industrial expansion devoured the state's abundant natural resources, some of its citizens had grown rich. Closely connected to the political establishment, they feared any disruption to the economic juggernaut or the Gilded Age political order that had governed Wisconsin for decades. During La Follette's first four years in office, Republican bosses succeeded in blocking his legislative initiatives, but he was popular, and his power was growing. In 1904, on the verge of obliteration, the old guard threatened an unbridled fight to prevent his nomination for a third two-year term.
The split in the Wisconsin Republican Party was different from any that had preceded it, and the press struggled to label the warring factions. It did not occur to people to call the two sides progressive and conservative. Americans did not yet associate these words with politics. Instead, journalists reached back to an earlier Republican schism from the days of Ulysses S. Grant. They called the Republican bosses and their supporters Stalwarts because of their fealty to tradition. They called La Follette and his allies Half-Breeds as in half-Republican — even though the Democratic bosses detested them as much as the Republican bosses did.
The decisive battle unfolded in the Red Gym on May 18, 1904. La Follette's Half-Breeds held a narrow lead in the delegate count. The Stalwarts hoped to swarm the convention and force a challenge to the delegate roll. If that failed, they could disrupt the proceedings by threat of force. But La Follette's football players thwarted both schemes. In vote after vote, the delegates rejected the Stalwarts' parliamentary challenges. By the time the sunrays streaming through the windows began to fade, it was clear that the Half-Breeds had won. La Follette would be nominated for a third term.
At 5:45 p.m., one of the Stalwart captains jumped from his chair and shouted, "I ask the privilege of announcing that all anti-third-term delegates in this convention are requested to meet in caucus at the Fuller Opera House at 8 o'clock tonight!" A crowd of Stalwarts followed him as he stormed out of the chamber.
THE NEXT DAY, FRONT-PAGE HEADLINES FROM New York City to the Arizona Territory announced the sensational news: "Bolt In Wisconsin." The Stalwarts had bolted the Red Gym and were holding a shadow convention to nominate their own candidates at the opera house. The story was hot. Newspapers reveled in the feud and speculated feverishly about its effect on President Theodore Roosevelt's election chances. But none of them recognized its significance.
The schism in Wisconsin was the first crack in the Republican Party's hegemony. Over the next eight years, the rupture would fissure across every state and territory in the Union. By the time the earth stopped shaking, the old political order would lie shattered on the ground. New battle lines would divide the voters. New rules and institutions would govern their lives. New visions would inspire them. The greatest period of political change in American history was about to begin.
WASHINGTON, DC, MAY 30, 1904
From Theodore Roosevelt's point of view, Governor La Follette was a nuisance. Roosevelt's eyes were fixed on the next election, six months away. Winning was not just a political goal; it was a point of honor. His accession to the White House had been a fluke, an accidental consequence of President McKinley's assassination. He wanted to prove that he could win the presidency in his own right.
The schism in Madison threatened this prize. His friend Nicholas Murray Butler, president of Columbia University, advised him that the Wisconsin situation was dangerous. If one of the factions bolted the national Republican ticket, he might lose the state's 13 electoral votes. Butler blamed La Follette for the turmoil, adding, "He is more or less of a fanatic and cannot be conciliated by any ordinary methods."
Roosevelt concurred. "I absolutely agree with you that the Wisconsin situation is very, very ugly," he replied. "I am at my wits' end how to keep out of it. In my judgment you read La Follette exactly right ..." He did not oppose Wisconsin's political reforms. To the contrary, he had established a reputation for taking on corrupt political bosses and powerful corporations. But he neither liked nor trusted Governor La Follette, whom he regarded as unbalanced and dangerous to the Republican Party.
For Roosevelt, balance was paramount. In any controversy, he invariably positioned himself between the poles. If he gave a speech criticizing rich "plutocrats," he qualified it by censuring the "mob" as well. When he attacked "bosses" and "political machines," he made sure to denounce "demagogues" and "fanatics" in the next sentence. Born into old New York money, he disdained the populist agitation that was sweeping the West. "I have a horror of hysterics or sentimentality," he explained. "All I want to do is cautiously to feel my way to see if we cannot make the general conditions of life a little easier, a little better."
In addition to his temperamental aversion to populism, Roosevelt also had a practical reason to be cautious. He knew the Republican-controlled Congress would never agree to radical changes. To pass legislation, he had to compromise with congressional leaders. "The reformers complain because I will not go to the absurdity of refusing to deal with machine Senators," he protested to journalist Ray Stannard Baker, "but I must work with the material that the states send me."
Even Roosevelt's celebrated trust-busting exemplified his pragmatism. In the late 1800s, a rash of corporate mergers had concentrated the nation's thriving industries into giant holding companies known as trusts. Like many Americans, Roosevelt worried about the trusts' political influence and anticompetitive practices. Taking advantage of an antitrust law from 1890, he shocked the business community by suing the Northern Securities Company, the largest railroad corporation in the world. The pioneering lawsuit established his reputation as a legendary trust-buster, but after breaking up Northern Securities, he eased off his assault. Employing the threat of litigation as a "big stick," he worked quietly with corporate executives to reform rather than to dissolve other large conglomerates.
His interactions with congressional leaders were similarly accommodating. In return for a free hand to conduct foreign diplomacy, he refrained from challenging Congress's purview over domestic legislation. His first term was not without legislative accomplishments, including the establishment of the Department of Commerce and Labor, but he achieved them by cooperating with recalcitrant Republican leaders, and the legislation's impact was modest. For the most part, he left Congress to plod along as it had for years, complacently passing small-bore appropriations and other minor legislation while substantive reform bills strangled silently in committee.
Among the Republican legislators, Roosevelt held a particularly high regard for John Coit Spooner, the Wisconsin senator who led the Stalwart faction. Spooner's wire-rim pince-nez and thick mat of hair gave him the appearance of an absented-minded professor, but Roosevelt knew him to be one of the sharpest minds and most powerful politicians in Washington. He was indebted to him for helping to pass the Panama Canal treaty and other diplomatic initiatives. "What a trump Spooner is," he wrote. "He has done so much for me."
One week after Wisconsin's Republican convention, Spooner visited the White House to ask a favor of his own. The Stalwarts had elected him to represent them at the Republican National Convention in Chicago. La Follette's Half-Breeds had selected their own representatives. There could only be one Wisconsin delegation, so the Republican National Committee would have to choose between the two factions. Spooner urged Roosevelt to stay out of the contest, arguing that presidential dignity required him to remain above the fray. Roosevelt, who was anxious to avoid entanglement in the affair, agreed.
A few days later, a Half-Breed delegation arrived in Washington, begging for his assistance. They pointed out that the Republican National Committee was biased against them. The committee chairman, Postmaster General Henry C. Payne, was a Wisconsin Stalwart, and the other members were on his side. Without presidential intervention, the committee would certainly authenticate the Stalwart delegation. But Roosevelt declined to interfere. Echoing Spooner's argument, he insisted that the President should not involve himself in state politics.
His hands clean, he hoped that the matter would soon be put to rest. Years later, he would come to see the conflict in another light. By then, he would be a different man. And America would be a different country.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, JUNE 23, 1904
An angular old man stood on the stage beneath the great arched ceiling of the Chicago Coliseum, shaking and shouting. His arms made circles, his legs vibrated, and his toes worked up and down in their shoes. An ill-fitting coat bunched and puckered across his narrow frame, and he wore his white beard with no moustache, a throwback to the days of Abraham Lincoln. As he cavorted across the stage, the old man did not look like a statesman. Out of context, he might have been taken for an ignorant old farmer with "hayseed in his hair," as city folk said of country folk in his day.
That was what they had assumed when he arrived in Washington, DC, back in 1873. After his first speech in the House of Representatives, a congressman from New Jersey sneered that he must have "oats in his pocket." But the Illinois freshman turned the jibe to his advantage. "Yes, I have oats in my pocket and hay-seed in my hair," he drawled, "and the western people generally are affected in the same way; and we expect that the seed, being good, will yield a good crop ..." The other congressmen laughed; they appreciated wit. This man would do well in the House.
And he did do well, though he never relinquished his western ways. On the contrary, he exaggerated his country manners and wrapped himself in the aura of the homespun American pioneer. When he cursed and shouted, swung his fists, swigged his whiskey, and chewed his cigars, well that was all part of his rugged charm. The legislators embraced his idiosyncrasies and hardly noticed as he worked his way up the Republican Party ranks. Soon they were calling him "Uncle Joe" and coming to him for favors. When the Speaker of the House stepped down in 1903, everyone knew who would succeed him: Joseph Gurney Cannon of Danville, Illinois.
The House Speaker held considerable authority in those days. He selected members of the congressional committees in which legislation was forged. He dictated the voting schedule, determining which bills reached the floor for a vote and which ones died quietly at the end of the session. He decided who would speak on the House floor on any given day. Cannon did not create the rules that concentrated such power in his office, but he applied them more zealously than his predecessors. He packed the important House committees with loyal supporters and blocked bills he disliked from coming to a vote, using his authority to enforce discipline among the Republican ranks and even among many Democrats. Congressmen who hoped to obtain prominent committee positions or federal projects for their districts had to win his favor. Each morning, they gathered at his office like supplicants, appealing to old Uncle Joe for the privilege of speaking on the record that day.
Never before or since has one man exercised such supremacy in the House. Had he wished, Joseph G. Cannon might have been the most prolific Speaker in American history. But moving legislation was not his ambition. He liked the country just the way it was. "This talk about the country going to the devil is the mere raving of demagogues," he snorted. "The average man was never so profitably employed in the history of the world." Cannon's personal success had made him an inveterate optimist. Having raised himself from the dirt floor of a log cabin to the pinnacle of power, he saw no reason why any hard-working American who put his mind to it should not do the same. As long as the government kept its nose out of peoples' business, America would do just fine. He wasn't concerned about political bosses or robber barons, monopolies or bank runs, child labor or tainted food. He didn't like the idea of women voting, and he abhorred government regulation. "I am god-damned tired of listening to all this babble for reform," he said, "America is a hell of a success." He promptly quashed the few reform bills that occasionally peeped out from his congressional committees.
Yet for all his reactionary authoritarianism, it was hard to hate Uncle Joe. His straightforward manner, his folksy humor, and his irrepressible optimism endeared him to congressmen on both sides of the aisle. Even his enemies could barely get through their denunciations without confessing how much they loved the man. As for the Republican rank and file, they adored him. The party had good reason to choose him to chair the Republican National Convention.
The convention was the media kick-off for the presidential campaign; the whole country would read about what went on in the Chicago Coliseum. The party leaders hoped to project confidence and enthusiasm. They wanted hordes of screaming delegates exploding with partisan fervor. Uncle Joe was the perfect man to rouse the troops. He bounded back and forth across the platform like a man half his age, bringing the ecstatic delegates to their feet. They roared with delight as he took up a tattered old American flag and brandished it over his head, shouting above the din, "Get up boys, and yell!"
Excerpted from Unreasonable Men by Michael Wolraich. Copyright © 2014 Michael Wolraich. Excerpted by permission of Palgrave Macmillan.
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Bolt
Chapter 2: The Railroad
Chapter 3: The Muck Rake
Chapter 4: The Panic
Chapter 5: The Money Power
Chapter 6: The Smile
Chapter 7: The Tariff
Chapter 8: The Insurgency
Chapter 9: The Progressive
Chapter 10: The Bull Moose