President Cleveland's big secret ...

As a severe economic crisis challenged the U.S. in 1893, President Grover Cleveland faced an additional, personal crisis. A sore spot on the roof of his mouth had become more and more painful. His doctor took samples of tissue from the inflamed area he found and sent them – without identifying the source – to two labs for analysis. Both reported the tissue to be cancerous.

“Keeping secrets in the 1890s was easier than it would be a century later, but Cleveland didn’t want to take any chances,” wrote historian H.W. Brands in his 1995 book The Reckless Decade: America in the 1890s. News of the president’s serious health problem could push the nation’s already-teetering economy over the edge, it was feared.

An elaborate plan to hide the president’s surgery was devised. Cleveland quietly left Washington on a train, supposedly to visit his pregnant wife at their summer home in Massachusetts. But instead, he was taken to a yacht on the Hudson River. On that boat, as it sailed in the waters surrounding New York on July 1, a team of surgeons and a dentist began to operate on the president.

The first step was to remove several of the president’s teeth to allow surgeons access to the tumor. Nitrous oxide – “laughing gas” – was used as an anesthetic at first. But when the medical team became concerned that it might be wearing off as the surgery continued longer than expected, ether was administered, putting Cleveland into a much deeper anesthetic sleep. After the tumor was extracted, the golf-ball sized hole was packed with gauze and the president was sent to private room to recover on the yacht.

One day later, Cleveland was able to walk in his room, but remained below deck to avoid being seen. Security became an increasing concern, however, when the medical team’s dentist – Dr. Ferdinand Hasbrouck – left the yacht to perform a previously scheduled surgery on another patient. Rumors about the president’s health had already arisen, and he was brought ashore to his Massachusetts summer home on July 5. There, a presidential aide responded newsmen’s inquiries, saying only that Cleveland had an infected tooth that had been removed.

The president spent four weeks recuperating at his residence. During this period, a special rubber plug was inserted into the hole on the roof of his mouth. It prevented food particles from entering the incision and helped restore the fullness of Cleveland’s face, Brands wrote in his book.

Rumors about the president’s health gathered strength. Speaking to a colleague, Dr. Hasbrouck casually mentioned his service to the president, and the colleague mentioned the story to a friend who was a reporter for the Philadelphia newspaper. The reporter then went to Hasbrouck, telling him that he had the story but just needed a few more details, thereby duping the dentist into telling all that he knew.  But when the reporter then sought insights from the other members of the medical team, they would confirm none of Hasbrouck’s story. Instead, they said that Hasbrouck had screwed up on pulling the president’s bad teeth and had been dismissed. Hasbrouck made up his fantastic story in retaliation, they suggested.

Painter James Whistler ... a West Point failure

James McNeill Whistler, the American-born but later European-based painter, is best known for the 1871 portrait that is commonly called “Whistler’s Mother.”  His art was recognized internationally with awards and honors during and after his lifetime. But before he focused on his art, his younger life took him down a much different path, including a stint as a cadet at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.

Whistler’s father, a West Point graduate, was a successful engineer who agreed to help build a railroad in Russia. After his father died of cholera, Whistler and his mother returned to the U.S.  She hoped he would become a minister, but Whistler showed little aptitude or interest in that.  So then, based largely on family connections, Whistler sought and received an appointment to the military academy, which he entered only days before his 17th birthday.

“Whistler took a relaxed view of Academy life,” writes James S. Robbins in Last in Their Class: Custer, Pickett and the Goats of West Point, a 2006 book about the people who finished last in their class at (or as in Whistler’s case, were expelled from) West Point. Whistler’s roommate said that he was “one of the most indolent of mortals. But his was a most charming laziness, always doing that which was most agreeable to others and himself.”

Whistler was intelligent and educated enough to pass most subjects without much work, but his grades and class rank were never high. He preferred to spent time drawing sketches rather than studying. His refusal to take his academic life seriously, his efforts to bend the rules (for example, by keeping his hair longer than it should be), and penchant for smarting off to instructors brought many demerits.

For example, when unable to recall the date of a battle, Whistler was challenged by an instructor who asked him what he would have done, as a “West Point man,” if the question had been asked of him at a dinner party.  “Why, I should refuse to associate myself with people who could talk of such things at dinner,” Whistler responded.

Whistler was rather frail and tended to be sickly, factors which did not bode well for the more physical demands of West Point, such as horsemanship. One day he plunged over his horse’s head, bringing a retort from instructor: “Mr. Whistler, I am pleased to see you for once at the head of your class.”

Robbins wrote in his book that Whistler’s offenses “were for the most part not serious – inattentiveness, lateness, carelessness, the kind of thing one would expect.” But the last straw came in his third year, on his chemistry final exam, when asked to discuss “silicon,” a usually solid material that is a primary component of sand. Whistler began his discussion by calling silicon a gas, and his instructor promptly declared Whistler’s knowledge insufficient. After the West Point Academic Board voted to expel him, Whistler appealed. His appeal ultimately reached the West Point superintendent, who was Robert E. Lee, the future Confederate military leader.

A year earlier, Lee had reviewed Whistler’s record when the number of demerits he accumulated reached the point that called for his expulsion. At that time, Lee dismissed demerits for some of Whistler’s less serious offenses, leaving him under the limit and allowing him to continue as a West Point cadet. But now, Whistler had so many demerits that trimming a few made no difference, and Lee signed off on the future world-renown painter’s expulsion from the Academy.

Over the next few years, Whistler bounced around the East Coast before deciding to commit himself to art and moving to France in 1854. There, his career as an artist took off, and he never returned to the U.S. Whistler died in London in 1903.

The Boston Tea Party ... a result of lower taxes

Taxes were a big issue that led to the Boston Tea Party in December 1773, but not in the way many of us might believe. In fact, a reduction in taxes led to the incident, in which American colonists vaguely disguised as American Indians boarded ships laden with tea and tossed it overboard, into Boston harbor.

The tea was owned by England’s East India Company, which had developed a near-monopoly over England’s trade with other regions of the world by the mid to late 1700s. The British government depended heavily on import and export tariffs generated by trade, so a strong East India Company was vital for England’s well-being. When the company faced financial difficulties in the early 1770s, Britain passed its Tea Act of 1773. The Tea Act allowed the East India Company to ship tea to the American colonies directly from India, without first taking it to England to be sold to middlemen who would then send it to America. The Act also reduced the duty on the company’s tea as it was imported by American colonies.  And too, there’s ample evidence that by reducing the cost of tea legally imported by the Americans, the British also hoped that the colonists would overlook a smaller tax and pay it, thus acknowledging Britain’s right to tax them – which had become a major sticking point in recent years.

As intentioned, the Tea Act lowered the price of the East India Company’s tea in America. The company and the British government expected those lower prices to lead to increased demand, thereby helping to prop up the company and ensure its future contributions to British government coffers. The result was something else, as historian Barbara Tuchman wrote in her 1984 book The March of Folly: From Troy to Vietnam.

The price reduction in the cost of East India Company tea made it less expensive than Dutch tea that was illegally brought to America. That threatened the livelihood of American smugglers, whose illicit activities had reduced by  two-thirds the amount of English tea imported by the colonies.  American merchants who had worked as wholesalers for legally imported English tea were also hurt financially by the Tea Act, which eliminated their middleman role in the trade. Also, many American patriots saw through – with anger – the British ruse to entice colonists to overlook the relatively small tax on the tea and thereby accept it.

Many of the tea-bearing ships arriving at American ports after the Tea Act were turned back, but not in Boston. There, three ships were boarded by “Mohawks,” who tossed tea from 342 chests into the harbor in three hours.

The destruction of the tea enraged even American sympathizers in Britain. The British government responded by closing the port of Boston “to all commerce until indemnity had been paid to the East India Company and reparations to the customs commissioners for damages suffered, and until ‘peace and obedience to the Laws’ was assured sufficiently that trade might be safely carried on and customs duly collected,” writes Tuchman. This and additional strong measures, which in hindsight might be viewed as over-reactions, brought only more American opposition to British rule and tended to unify American colonists. And we know the rest of that story.

 

Bobby Jones ... sportsmanship at its best

Bobby Jones was one of the best golfers of all time, although he was an amateur, played part-time, and left the game at 28. A lawyer by profession, but with academic degrees in engineering and English literature as well, Jones is best known for his Grand Slam victory in 1930. In that single year, he won all four of the major tournaments of the day and left the game as a player. Later, he co-founded the Augusta National Golf Club in Georgia and its annual Master’s Tournament, developed a set of instructional videos, and designed golfing equipment.

But perhaps Jones’ greatest legacy involves sportsmanship on a level that is almost unheard of – then or now. Competing in the 1925 U.S. Open, Jones’ golf club accidently brushed the ball as he prepared for a shot. He immediately reported the contact and movement – a violation of the rules – to the on-the-scene authorities. None of them had seen the ball move. So they questioned nearby spectators, and none of them had seen it move either. But Jones insisted that he had touched the ball and it had moved, so he assessed himself a one-stroke penalty. He later lost the tournament by one stroke.

After the incident, Jones was angered when people praised his sportsmanship in the matter, wrote author Mark Frost in his 2005 book The Grand Slam: Bobby Jones, America, and the Story of Golf. Rules are rules, Jones believed. “You’d as well praise me for not breaking into banks,” he told a reporter.

Today, the Bob Jones Award is presented annually by the U.S. Golf Association in recognition of good sportsmanship in golf.   

Gangster Clyde Barrow, on Ford cars ...

Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, notorious outlaws who terrorized the American Midwest in the early 1930s, reportedly shot nine law enforcement officers and several others as they robbed banks and small businesses during their crime spree.  That came to an end in May 1934, when both were killed in an ambush set up in Louisiana by lawmen from that state and Texas.

But only six weeks before his death, Barrow purportedly sent a letter to Henry Ford praising Ford automobiles, especially the V-8 model. The letter, now on display in the Henry Ford Museum in Michigan, is noted in Jeff Guinn's 2010 book Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie and Clyde. Written on April 10, 1934 from Tulsa, Oklahoma, the letter says:

“Dear Sir: -

While I still have got breath in my lungs I will tell you what a dandy car you make. I have drove Fords exclusively when I could get away with one. For sustained speed and freedom from trouble the Ford has got ever other car skinned and even if my business hasen't been strickly legal it don't hurt enything to tell you what a fine car you got in the V8 -

Yours truly

Clyde Champion Barrow”

But is the letter authentic, or is it perhaps the invention of an imaginative public relations effort, or simply a hoax?  You can find historians on all sides of the issue.  Some point out that Barrow’s middle name was “Chestnut,” not “Champion,” but others point out that Barrow wrote Champion as his middle name when he entered prison for a while in 1930. Too, the data and place seem to fit Barrow's whereabouts at the time, and so does the writing style.

Comparisons of the handwriting in this letter with Barrow’s known handwriting are troublesome, though, and suggest that maybe he didn’t write it. In fact, the handwriting in the Barrow-to-Ford letter seems to be a better match for the handwriting of Bonnie Parker, Barrow’s major partner in crime. Could she have written if for him? That’s not a slam dunk either. Although her handwriting seems to suggest some strong similarities to the letter in question, inconsistencies are apparent as well.  See for yourself at Bonnie and Clyde’s Hideout website, which displays the questionable letter and handwriting samples from Barrow and Parker.  

Migration from Europe ... the untold story of the people left behind

Many of us are familiar with the challenges faced by 19^th century European immigrants to Texas and other states. But what of the challenges faced by family members and friends left behind, across the Atlantic?  Their lives could be severely disrupted by migration of family members to America too.

Take, for example, the Kempe family of Sayda, Germany. In 1854, the family’s eldest son, Wilhelm, 26, and eldest daughter, Auguste, 20, decided to seek a new life in Texas. They left behind in Sayda their widowed father, August Kempe, 52, and a 10-year-old sister, Bertha, and eight-year-old brother, Alwin.

Letters written by the place-bound father, the younger sister, and the younger brother in Europe to Wilhelm in Texas over the next decades provide poignant insights into how their lives were changed – and the sacrifices they had to make – as a result of the emigration of Wilhelm and Auguste to America. The letters, translated from German to English, and explanatory narrative are the subject of my book Man of Two Worlds.

The federal blockade of southern ports probably prevented the exchange of letters during the Civil War, but many came in the following decades. Some reveal that Wilhelm’s father August remained heartbroken about losing Wilhelm even after the son had lived in Texas for 15 years, with a growing family of his own.

“I wish I could visit you once. Then my biggest wish would be fulfilled. If I could be younger, I would do it and would not care how much money I have to spend, because my longing for my children gets bigger and bigger. I regret so much that I ever let you go and to think that I would die without having seen you again makes my heart heavy,” August writes to Wilhelm in an undated letter probably written in 1869.

August is also becoming concerned about the future and the Kempe family legacy in Germany. He wonders which of his sons will take over the farm when he is no longer able to manage it. Alwin, who is in his mid 20s in 1871 and recently returned from military service, has no interest in it. Bertha is reaching her late 20s that year, when she writes to Wilhelm again, telling him of their father’s worries on this issue.

“Father wants [Alwin] to be here and take over the farm but he doesn’t want it. So often Father says, if only Wilhelm could come over here and take my property over, him I could trust. I wonder if you couldn’t sell your property and come back home. It would make us so very happy, but if you and your dear wife could not decide to come home, then dear brother could you not come for a visit so we could see each other and talk about so many things that should be straightened out,” Bertha tells her brother in Texas.

In January 1873, Alwin also writes to Wilhelm about the family difficulties back in the Homeland:  “I wish I was with you to help you, but Father does not want me to leave. …If I had the money myself I still might come to you and start something. My dear Wilhelm, I sure wish you could come and see us again. It sure would help. I just cannot talk with Father and get along like you, that is the reason I am leaving [the family home in Sayda] this week again.”

In another letter from Bertha, in 1875, she appears to suggest sarcastically to Wilhelm that she chafes a bit at having been left by her siblings to take care of their aging father. “It is a good feeling to be able to take care of your parents in their old age and I know if you were here you would do the same,” she writes.

In the same letter, Bertha notes that she plans to marry Dietel, a man from a nearby town, but only if he can get a transfer to her village. “Dietel’s father is getting a nurse from the city to take care of him, so he can put in for a transfer to Sayda. If they will acknowledge that, we can get married. After all, I cannot leave Father alone, so will have to settle down here in Sayda …” she writes.

Clearly, these family members left behind in Europe faced challenges of their own as a result of emigration from German lands. In fact, their sacrifices – exemplified here by the need for Bertha to take on family responsibilities left for her by older siblings who wanted to pursue a new life in America – played a crucial role in allowing at least hundreds of thousands of Europeans to make their way to Texas and other states. It was a crucial role, and one that is often unheralded and unappreciated.

Franklin and Adams ... pillow talk

American founding fathers John Adams and Benjamin Franklin had a complex relationship, based in their very different personalities and approaches to life in general. Adam was known to be the more stern, frugal, and serious of the two, while Franklin was more lighthearted, interested in finding and experiencing the more enjoyable parts of life. Perhaps there is no better illustration of their differences than Adams’ report of the night they spent together, sharing a bed in a small room – the only one available – at a New Jersey inn.

The two patriots were traveling as part of an American delegation to meet with Britain’s Lord Howe on New York’s Staten Island in September 1776. Howe had requested a conference as part of a British attempt at reconciling with the Americans after they declared independence from British rule.

Adam’s account of the evening, written in his diary, reports that the room was only a bit larger than the bed itself, and with only one small window. Adams seems to have been recovering from an illness, and closed the window to shut out the chilly nighttime air. But Franklin protested.

In Adam’s words (with his original punctuation, spelling, and grammar): 

“Oh! says Franklin dont shut the Window. We shall be suffocated.

I answered I was afraid of the Evening Air.

Dr. Franklin replied, the Air within this Chamber will soon be, and indeed is now worse than that without Doors: come! open the Window and come to bed, and I will convince you: I believe you are not acquainted with my Theory of Colds.

Opening the Window and leaping into Bed, I said I had read his letters … in which he had advanced, that Nobody ever got cold by going into a cold Church, or any other cold Air: but the Theory was so little consistent with my experience, that I thought it a Paradox: However I had so much curiosity to hear his reasons, that I would run the risque of a cold.

The Doctor then began an harrangue, upon Air and cold and Respiration and Perspiration, with which I was so much amused that I soon fell asleep, and left him and his Philosophy together …”

Draw your own metaphors to this account, perhaps after reading more of it at the Massachusetts Historical Society’s online digital collection. And let the rest of us know what you think in comments below.

Although Adams and Franklin had an agreeable relationship at this point in the birth of our country, their relationship was not particularly warm in following years. Adams would come to not like Franklin very much at all, primarily for what he viewed as Franklin’s too-frivolous approach to life and the American cause. But that’s another story.