I am sure that it is not necessary for me, at this late day, to dwell upon the fact that I am an enthusiast in my devotion to hunting and fishing, as well as every other kind of outdoor recreation.
You all know me already as sporty Grover, the former mayor of Buffalo and governor of New York, who despite his expansive girth, made a quick and sprightly leap to the highest office in the land.
Although my sporting proclivities have at times subjected me to criticism and petty forms of persecution, I make no claim that my steadfastness should be looked upon as manifesting the courage of martyrdom.
No, martyrdom would be all those years in office, when I was subjected to every form of petty persecution not only from Republicans, with their love of big government and easy money, but from my own Democratic party, half of whom were enthusiastic about new economic theories that said we should jettison the gold standard.
On the contrary, I regard these criticisms and persecutions as nothing more serious than gnat stings suffered on the bank of a stream--vexations to be born with patience and afterward easily submerged in the memory of abundant delightful accompaniments.
In other words, what I really love to look back on is how, despite the fact that I knew nothing about monetary policy, I clung like a bulldog to my ideas about the gold standard and tariffs.
Thus when short fishing excursions, in which I have sought relief from the wearing labors and perplexities of official duty,
AKA being POTUS during the worst economic meltdown to hit the nation yet (why did THAT happen?)
have been denounced in a mendacious newspaper as dishonest devices to cover scandalous revelry,
. . . as if I was using wetting my line as a metaphor, if you get my drift--as a front for dipping my paw into more forbidden honeypots, as it were . . .
I have been able to enjoy a sort of pleasurable contempt for the author of this accusation, while congratulating myself on the mental and physical restoration I had derived from these excursions.
And in fact, I had many of these reviving excursions in the four years after my first term, when I won the popular vote but lost the electoral college, and thus took some restorative time off from being POTUS.
So also, when people, more mistaken than malicious, have wagged their heads in pitying fashion and deprecated my indulgence in hunting and fishing frivolity, which, in high public service
AKA, being leader of the free world a SECOND time after winning the popular vote AND the electoral college my third time around,
I have found it easy to lament the neglect of these amiable persons to accumulate for their delectation a fund of charming sporting reminiscence; while, at the same time, I sadly reflected how their dispositions might have sweetened
(which they could SO use--I'm looking at you William Jennings Bryant--people still remember that "you shall not crucify mankind on a cross of gold" quote)
and their lives made happier if they had yielded something to the particular type of frivolity which they deplored.
I know I did not deplore frivolity, even though I was famous for working really really long hours. Work hard, play hard was always my motto.
I hope it may not be amiss for me to supplement these personal observations by the direct confession that, so far as my attachment to outdoor sports may be considered a fault, I am, as related to this especial predicament of guilt, utterly incorrigible and shameless.
Pay attention here. I said in THIS especial predicament of guilt, which is to say I am incorrigible and shameless in my propensity for OUTDOOR SPORTS, not, as those mendacious newspapers claimed, in my propensity for seducing and abandoning women. Like that woman Maria Halpin, whom I definitely did not seduce.
Not many years ago, while residing in a non-sporting but delightfully cultured and refined community, I found that considerable indignation had been aroused among certain good neighbors and friends, because it had been said of me that I was willing to associate in the field with any loafer who was the owner of a dog and a gun.
Or fraternize with any woman who was the owner of a charming smile, like that woman Maria Halpin, whose apparently fatherless son, Oscar Folsom Cleveland, I did in fact support.
I did not undervalue the extreme friendliness of those inclined to intervene in my defense; and yet, I felt inexorably constrained to check their kindly efforts by promptly conceding that the charge was too nearly true to be denied.
Just as when I refused to say the kid is not my son, even when my friends wrote a letter of denial for me, and I shoved it away and said "No, it isn't true." I'm just honest that way. It's why they called me "Grover the Good."
It seems to me that thoughtful men should not be accused of exaggerated fears when they deprecate the wealth-mad rush and struggle of American life and the consequent neglect of outdoor recreation, with the impairment of that mental and physical vigor absolutely essential to our national welfare.
Just because everything I did in office benefited Wall Street, just because I propped up the American economy by borrowing gold from people named Morgan and Rothschild, don't think I failed to see that pure money-grubbing is bad for our morals. I'm just absolute on the principle of small government. All those people who were ruined in the Panic of 1893 could seriously have used a nice fishing trip or shooting party to fix up their vigor and become better citizens.
There can be no doubt that the promise of industrial peace, of contented labor and of healthful moderation in the pursuit of wealth, in this democratic country of ours, would be infinitely improved if a large share of the time which has been devoted to the concoction of trust and business combinations, had been spent in fishing.
Another group of folks who could have used some hook and line therapy? Those annoying Pullman strikers I had to suppress with federal troops when they tried to shut down the railroads. Sure Mr. Pullman reduced their wages by 30% while refusing to cut their rents and charging them for water at a 500% markup in his company town. But if they had gone down to the river with a fly rod they could have enjoyed some free water and brought home some food for the family at the reasonable price of only 5 or 6 hours of their free time.
It is sometimes said that there is such close relationship between mendacity and fishing, that in matters connected with their craft all fishermen are untruthful. It must, of course, be admitted that large stories of fishing adventure are sometimes told by fishermen—and why should this not be so? There is no sphere of human activity so full of strange and wonderful incidents as theirs.
In other words, fishermen are liars, but hey, what happens at sea stays at sea. Like that time when I had a cancerous tumor in my mouth and had it secretly removed at sea, on my rich friend's yacht, by a team of doctors who were all sworn to secrecy. No need to upset an already jittery nation.
Of course, the notion must not be for a moment tolerated that deliberate, downright lying as to an essential matter is permissible. It must be confessed, however, that unescapable traditions and certain inexorable conditions of our brotherhood tend to a modification of the standards of truthfulness which have been set up in other quarters.
Also when your wife is a beautiful young woman 27 years your junior, who agreed to marry you when she was an undergraduate, you're always on the lookout for ways to impress her and honestly, where's the harm is making the fish that got away a few inches bigger than it was?
It must in frankness be admitted, however, that when the largest trout of the day, after a long struggle, winds the leader about a snag and escapes, or when a large salmon, apparently fatigued to the point of non-resistance, suddenly frees himself from the hook, the fisherman’s code of morals will not condemn the holder of the straightened rod if he impulsively exclaims: “Damn that fish!”
And so too, having left the White House a pariah in my own party, having mismanaged the economy so thoroughly that the Democratic party would soon be captured by its populist wing and never again stand for limited government, what I say is "Damn that presidency; I'm going fishing."
All quotes (in bold) from Fishing and Shooting Sketches, by Grover Cleveland (New York: The Outing Publishing Company, 1906)
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