Woodrow Wilson As I Know Him | Page 4

speeches of the leading Irish orators like
Curran, Sheridan, and Fox.
While these discussions in the little store wended their uneasy way
along, a spark of humour was often injected into them by the delightful
banter of a rollicking, good-natured Irishman, a big two-fisted fellow,
generous- hearted and lovable, whom we affectionately called "Big
Phil." I can see him now, standing like a great pyramid in the midst of
the little group, every now and then throwing his head back in
good-natured abandon, recounting wild and fantastic tales about the
fairies and banshees of the Old Land from whence he had come. When
his listeners would turn away, with skepticism written all over their
countenances, he would turn to me, whose youthful enthusiasm made
me an easy victim upon which to work his magic spell in the stories
which he told of the wonders of the Old Land across the sea.
I loved these delightful little gatherings in whose deliberations my dear
father played so notable a part. Those kind folk, now off the stage,
never allowed the spirit of provincialism to guide their judgment or
their attitude toward great public affairs. I recall with pleasure their
tolerance, their largeness of view, and fine magnanimity which raised
every question they discussed to a high level. They were a very simple
folk, but independent in their political actions and views. Into that little
group of free, independent political thinkers would often come a
warning from the Democratic boss of the city that they must follow
with undivided allegiance the organization's dictum in political matters
and not seek to lead opinion in the community in which they lived.
Supremely indifferent were these fine old chaps to those warnings, and

unmindful of political consequences. They felt that they had left behind
them a land of oppression and they would not submit to tyrannous
dictation in this free land of ours, no matter who sought to exert it.
In this political laboratory I came in contact with the raw materials of
political life that, as an older man, I was soon to see moulded into
political action in a larger way in the years to come. I found in politics
that the great policies of a nation are simply the policies and passions
of the ward extended. In the little discussions that took place in that
store, I was, even as a youth, looking on from the side-lines, struck by
the fine, wholesome, generous spirit of my own father. Never would he
permit, for instance, in the matter of the discussion of Ireland--so dear
to his heart--a shade of resentment or bitterness toward England to
influence his judgment in the least, for he believed that no man could
be a just judge in any matter where his mind was filled with passion;
and so in this matter, the subject of such fierce controversy, as in every
other, he held a judgment free and far away from his passionate
antagonisms. I found in the simple life of the community where I was
brought up the same human things, in a small way, that I was
subsequently to come in contact with in a larger way in the whirligig of
political life in the Capitol of the Nation. I found the same relative
bigness and the same relative smallness, the same petty jealousies and
rivalries which manifest themselves in the larger fields of a great
nation's life; the same good nature, and the same deep humanity
expressing itself in the same way, only differently apparelled.
One of the most interesting places in the world for the study of human
character is the country store or the city grocery. I was able as a boy
standing behind the counter of the little grocery store to study people;
and intimately to become acquainted with them and their daily lives
and the lives of their women and children. I never came in contact with
their daily routine, their joys and sorrows, their bitter actualities and
deep tragedies, without feeling rise in me a desire to be of service. I
remember many years ago, seated behind the counter of my father's
grocery store, with what passionate resentment I read the vivid
headlines of the metropolitan newspapers and the ghastly accounts of
the now famous Homestead Strike of 1892. Of course, I came to realize

in after years that the headlines of a newspaper are not always in
agreement with the actual facts; but I do recall how intently I pored
over every detail of this tragic story of industrial war and how, deep in
my heart, I resented the efforts of a capitalistic system that would use
its power in this unjust, inhuman way. Little did I realize as I pored
over the story of this tragedy in that far-off day that