Fifty Years in Oregon was written by Theodore T.
Geer, a grandson of Joseph Carey Geer and a shirttail ancestor of
ours.
I have put much of the book on
this website. I started because several
chapters describe the early roots of our family history in Oregon. I
kept going because
I found many of the chapters from this perspective on the early
settlers and the history of Oregon to be quite
interesting.
On May 8, 190I, the battleship Ohio was
launched at San Francisco and President McKinley was present to participate in
the attendant ceremonies. He had arranged an extensive itinerary which included
all the Pacific Coast States, but while in San Francisco, the severe illness of
his wife, by whom he was accompanied, made it necessary for him to cancel all
his dates north of that city, much to the disappointment and regret of our
people.
I went to San Francisco to attend the
ceremonies of the launching and to extend an official invitation to the
President to visit Oregon, but he was compelled to return to Washington and was
assassinated at Buffalo a few months later. He was never in Oregon, though this
State was always especially loyal to him.
Governor Nash, of Ohio, was present at the
launching of the ship named after his State and I became well acquainted with
him. We made several side trips together and I found him a very genial companion
and most anxious to know more about this coast. On one of these little journeys
he became inoculated with poison oak, or ivy, and was sorely afflicted for the
remainder of his stay in San Francisco, being obliged to remain away from the
public reception given the Ohio visitors by the people of that city. On his way
home he was compelled to remain over at Salt Lake for a day and upon his arrival
at his home in Columbus was unable to enter a carriage without assistance. He
never regained his health and died the next year, many thought from the
lingering effect of his exposure to the poison oak in San Francisco.
Governor Nash was renominated in the summer
following, though his physical condition would have precluded such a thing had
it not been for the general esteem in which he was held by the people of Ohio.
When the campaign opened I received an invitation from the Republican State
Committee of Ohio to take a part in the speech-making. Though I had declined a
similar one the year before, I had a very friendly feeling for Governor Nash,
and as the invitation from Chairman Dick was followed a few days later by a
letter from the Governor, saying that he hoped I would come, I accepted. Soon
after this, however, President McKinley was shot at Buffalo and the formal
opening of the campaign, by the mutual consent of both political parties, was
postponed until time should tell the result of his wound.
Owing to the subsequent death of the President
the Ohio campaign was limited to two weeks. My first date was at the little city
of Waverly, about twenty miles north of the Ohio River, and the time was equally
divided between Senator Mark Hanna and myself. I had never seen that
distinguished gentleman until we met on the platform a few minutes before the
speaking began, and the impression he gave me was decidedly a favorable one. He
was as plain in his manner as a farmer. As we rode in a carriage through the
streets, after the meeting, it was scarcely possible to drive the team through
the crowds, so great was the jam of people who walked beside the vehicle and
insisted on grasping the hand of the Senator. There were continual shouts for
“Uncle Mark,” and “Hurrah for Uncle Mark!” etc. He was a candidate for
re-election, had been endorsed by the Republican State Convention and was
stumping the State advocating the election of a legislature that would be
favorable to him. There was no doubt of his reelection, by the popular vote, at
least, — none to those who saw the demonstrations of that day.
Senator Hanna invited my wife and me to spend
the following Sunday at his home in Cleveland, which we would gladly have done,
but that we desired to visit the Buffalo Exposition and it was possible to do so
only on that day. When I told the Senator I was the cousin of Homer Davenport,
who cartooned him so unmercifully in the campaign of 1896, he at once began
making inquiries about him and where he got his artistic ability. He said he had
met Davenport several times and really liked “the fellow,” but added that he
didn’t approve of his cartoon treatment of himself. I told him I never yet had
found a man who could really enjoy a good cartoon of himself, though everybody
else might regard it as a work of art. He said that he never cared “a peg” for
Davenport’s cartoons, but that his wife hated, that artist “worse than snakes.”
He remarked that he had instructed his secretary to save all the cartoons of
himself that had appeared in the papers, but that they were to be kept from his
wife, if possible.
The last week of the Ohio campaign I traveled
in company with Governor Nash, except while I was at Marysville, where my time
was divided with Warren G. Harding, since elected Lieutenant Governor and who
was last year defeated for Governor by Harmon.
So far as I could see there was no difference
between campaigning in Ohio and Oregon or Washington or Idaho. My previous
experience served to illustrate very forcibly the fact that ours is a great
country and, what is better, that we are essentially one great people. An
American citizen of Ohio has all the characteristics of the American citizen of
Oregon, Maine or Florida. This fact is more keenly realized when, in campaigning
in States widely separated geographically, one discovers the sameness of the
issues involved.
My wife and I spent Monday of the last week of
the campaign in Cleveland as the guests of Myron T. Herrick, afterward Governor
of Ohio, and in the evening visited the city of Ravenna, some ninety miles south
of Cleveland, where Governor Nash and I addressed a meeting whose proportions
fully sustained Ohio’s reputation for not “doing politics” by halves. Upon
arriving at Ravenna, a committee met me at the train, Governor Nash having gone
there early in the day to look after his local fences. After reaching the hotel,
the chairman said he wanted to put me on my guard as to a characteristic of the
people of his town.
“They always pay the best of attention to a
public speaker and appreciate his coming. You will have a crowded house; but
they never give any demonstration of approval, such as clapping of hands,
stamping of feet, etc. We account for it to outsiders by claiming that our
people are highly intellectual,” said he, with a twinkle in his eye; “but those
not used to their ways are likely to misconstrue their attitude.” He said that
when Senator Allison of Iowa was there the year before, he was greatly incensed
at what he termed the coldness of the Ravenna people and declared he would never
hold a meeting there again.
When I returned to Columbia after the campaign
had closed, Chairman Dick, in talking over the situation, inquired what kind of
a meeting I had had at Ravenna. After I told him it was a “stem-winder” and a
great success in every way, he said he had been a little afraid of it, since the
people there were noted for their lack of enthusiasm in public meetings.
Chairman Dick was then a member of the lower House of Congress and Ravenna was
in his district. While on this subject he told me this story:
Fifty years before, when Tom Corwin was in his
prime as a famous stump-speaker and orator — and wit — he attended a meeting at
Ravenna. After returning to his home in Cincinnati, while relating some of his
campaign experience, in the State, he said: “Ravenna, though, is the d——st place
yet. Why, up there they are so long-faced that they open their political
meetings with prayer and close by singing the Doxology. I spoke there last week
to a crowded house and the prospects for a successful meeting could not have
been better. But I had spoken for fully half an hour without bringing out any
applause or smile whatever. This was unusual, so I thought I would wake them up
by telling a story.” I told one of the best I knew, and told it as well as I
could; it fell perfectly flat. There was not a hand-clap nor a smile. I went on
for another twenty minutes without any response from the audience other than the
very best of attention. At this point I thought I would try another story on
them. So I selected one of my best and did my utmost to tell it well; but it was
as great a failure as the first.
“This made me mad, and I really cut my speech
short on account of the dullness of the people — or their stupidity, or
incapacity, or something — but I decided to give them just one more story and
see what it would do. Now, of course, I know I have some reputation as a
story-teller, and I felt a degree of personal pride in making an effort to rouse
that audience. I closed with a story that would cause the dead to rise up and
laugh, and used whatever art I possessed in relating it well, but, do you know,
there was not the slightest indication in any quarter of mirth — no applause nor
demonstration of any kind. Not even a smile.
“So the meeting was adjourned. Afterwards
several of the leading men of the city gathered around me and one of them,
speaking for the others, it seemed, said:
“‘Corwin, that was one of the best speeches I
ever heard. It was logical, eloquent, unanswerable and right to the point — just
what we needed here. And do you know, Corwin, your stories — why, when you told
that last one, I came mighty near laughing right out loud!’”
Next Chapter -
After campaigning in Ohio, Geer visits his grandfather's (Joseph Carey Geer)
home in London, Ohio.
If you are interested in finding this book, Fifty
Years in Oregon, it can
often be located at Powell's Books in Portland
which is one of the largest used book stores in the United States or, through the
Alibris service
which catalogs used books from stores across the country. For more information on the Geer Family, visit the Geer Family website. Other resources
and references include:
