“What is the matter with this political campaign?”  
An old man who can remember public events far back of the Civil War and beyond asked that question the other day. He said this campaign reminded him more of a Sunday school convention. Nobody was fighting, and very few such as “liar” or “thief” or “rascal” were being used. In these days no one seems to care who is to be elected. We are all too busy trying to pay our bills. The old man bewailed the loss of power and interest in this generation. He thought this quiet meant that as a nation we have lost our political . Having been through some of those old-time battles, I cannot agree with him. It is true that few people seem interested, yet they will vote this year, and I think the quiet and thoughtful study most of them are making will prove as effective as the big noise and excitement we used to have. We are merely doing things differently now. Whether the great excitement of those old political days made us better citizens is a question which has long puzzled me. I know that in those nervous and high-strung days we did many foolish things as a part of “politics.” On the other hand, I wish sometimes that our people could get as worked up over the tribute we are paying to the profiteers as we did in those old days over the and the slavery issue.
 
I can well remember taking part in the campaign between Garfield and Hancock. The felt that they had been robbed of the in ’76, but as they failed to renominate Tilden the Republicans called them quitters. I had dropped out of college for awhile to work as hired man for a farmer in a Western State, and we certainly had a great time. This farmer was an old soldier; he was a good talker and thought well of his own exploits. When you found that combination 40 years ago you struck a red-hot . The man’s wife was a , because her father had been. She was one of those small, black-eyed women who acquire the habit of dominating things in the schoolroom and then concentrate the habit when they take a school of one pupil in the home. Her brother lived on the next farm. He had turned Republican because he wanted to be elected county clerk. It was fully worth the price of admission to sit by the fire some stormy night and hear this woman put those two Republicans on the broiler of her tongue. They were big men, fully capable of holding their own in any ordinary argument, but this small woman cowed them as she did her A B C pupils. It was enough to make any young man very thoughtful about marrying a successful teacher to see this small woman point a finger at her big husband and say:
 
“Now John Crandall, don’t you dare to say it isn’t the truth!”
 
And John didn’t dare, though from his political religion it might be a base fabrication. One day, after a particularly hard thrust, John and I were digging potatoes, and he unburdened his mind a little:
 
 
“I’ll tell you one thing: any man who marries a good school-marm takes his life in his hands—his political life, anyway!” and he pushed his fork into the ground as though he was spearing a Democrat! “And yet,” he added, as he threw out a fine hill of potatoes, “sometimes I kinder think it’s worth the risk.”
 
My great regret is that this lady did not live to celebrate the Nineteenth ! With the in her hand she would have stirred excitement even into this dull campaign!
 
We worked all day, and went around arguing most of the night during that hot campaign. The names we had for the Democrats would not bear repeating here. The other side went around with pieces of chalk, making the figures “321” on every fence and building or on stones. That represented the sum of money which General Garfield was said to have stolen. The Republicans marched around in processions carrying a pair of tied to a pole, representing one of the Democratic candidates. Oh, it was a “campaign of education” without doubt! And then Maine voted! John and his brother-in-law had been playing Maine as their card.
 
“Wait till you hear from the old Pine Tree State. As Maine goes, so goes the union!”
 
John felt so sure of it that even his wife was a little fearful. The day after the Maine election John and I were seeding wheat on a hill back from the road. There were no telephones in those days, and news traveled slowly—we were eight miles from town. In the late afternoon we heard a noise from the distant road. There was Peleg Leonard driving his old white horse up the road at full speed and roaring out an old campaign song:
 
“Wait for the ! Wait for the wagon!
Democratic wagon, and we’ll all take a ride!”
The demand for in those days was confined to a few “wild-eyed fanatics,” and Peleg was not one of them, especially on those rare occasions when the Democrats got a chance to yell. We saw him stop in front of the house and wave his arms as he told the news to Sarah.
 
“Looks sorter bad. Can it be that Maine has gone back on us?” said John as he saw the celebrator go on his way.
 
We usually had a cold supper on such days, but now we saw the smoke pouring from the kitchen chimney, and the horn blew half an hour earlier than usual. John and I put up the horses, washed our faces at the pump and walked into the kitchen as only two dejected Republicans can travel. You see, it wasn’t so bad for the Democrats. They were used to being defeated, and had made no great claims. I was young then, and youth is intensely partisan. Since that day I have voted on four different party tickets, and glory in the fact that I am not “hide-bound.”
 
Sarah had on her best black silk and the white with lace edges. She had cooked some hot biscuit and dished up some of her famous plum preserve and actually skimmed a pan of milk to serve thick cream.
 
“Maine is gone Democratic!” she cried. “Hurrah for Hancock! Bread and water’s good enough for Republicans in this hour of triumph, but I know the fat of the land will taste like to both of you. Sit right down and feast, because the country’s safe!”
 
that supper was perfect. There never were finer hot biscuits or better plum preserve or finer cold chicken! Spiritually it was the saddest and most depressing meal on record. We made a full meal. I can go back into the years and see that big farmer half a chicken under command of his wife. You remember “King Robert of Sicily” in Longfellow’s poem:
 
“The world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch.”
And so with poor John. That fine chicken tasted exactly like crow as Sarah sat by and “rubbed it in.” Oh, politics, where are the charms we formerly saw in thy face?
 
John and I surely over our chores that night. We had no great desire to go in and hear the news. Finally Sarah came to the door and called us.
 
“Say,” said John to me as we started for the house, “you go to college. Have you ever studied or what they call ?”
 
“While I am no expert at either subject, I know what they mean.”
 
“Well, now, suppose your wife got after you like that, how would you use those studies to keep her quiet? What’s the use of an education if it don’t help you keep peace in the family?”
 
So I unwisely told John that he ought to tell his wife that a woman by law obtained her from her husband. That citizenship was the essence of politics; therefore the wife shoul............