in Philadelphia, practically unmodified, for the last half 
hundred years and more. 
He was known first to the local councilman and ward- 
leader; because he was of the same political faith as the 
dominant local political party he was used in one or two 
political campaigns to drum up votes. He was abso- 
lutely without value as a speaker, for he had no ideas; 
but as a vote-chaser—a political bookkeeper—he was ex- 
cellent. You could send him from door to door, asking 
the grocer and the blacksmith and the butcher how he 
felt about things. You could dole him out a few plati- 
tudes, and he would repeat them. The Republican party, 
which was the new-born party then, but dominant in 
Philadelphia, needed your vote; it was necessary to keep 
the rascally Democrats out—he could scarcely have said 
why. They had been for slavery. They were for free 
trade. It never once occurred to him that these things 
had nothing to do with the local executive and finan- 
cial administration of Philadelphia. The reputation and 
secret political standing of such men as Senator Mark 
Simpson, Edward Malia Butler, and Henry A. Mollen- 
hauer, who were supposed jointly to control the political 
destiny of Philadelphia, was a wonderful thing to him, a 
curiosity. There were all sorts of men prominent polit- 
ically, and he often wondered how they came to be so. 
By degrees lie learned how politics were worked in his 
ward, then in the city generally; but, having no personal 
magnetism, he still could not understand it. Men control- 
ling other men, being looked up to—that was a strange 
In no other city save such a one as this, where the in- 
habitants were of a deadly average in so far as being com- 
monplace was concerned, could such a man have been 
elected city treasurer. But the people of Philadelphia, 
the rank and file, did not, except in a few rare instances, 
make up their political programme, and never had. An 
inside ring had this matter in charge. Certain positions