To—
Washington, June 10, 1914
MY DEAR BILLY,—I have your letter of June 9th, relating to summer residence homesteads, and referring sneeringly several times to Blank. I wonder if you realize that Blank is my appointee and my friend. [He] has done you no wrong, and he intends to do the public no wrong. He is as public-spirited as you are, but you differ with him as to certain phases of our land policy, though not so widely as you yourself think. Is that any reason why you should discredit him? Is it not possible for men to differ with you on questions of public policy without being crooks? Your talk has started Chicago talking; nothing definite, just whispers. Is this fair to Blank? Is it fair to me? … Is the test of a man’s public usefulness decided by his views as to whether the desert lands should be leased or homesteaded?
I am saying this to you in the utmost friendliness, because I think that your attitude is not worthy of your own ideal of yourself, and it certainly does not comport with my ideal of you, which I very much wish to hold. Surely honest men may differ as to whether grazing lands should be leased, and if Blank is not honest then it is your duty to the public service and to me to show this fact.
At the bottom of your letter you say, “This report will introduce you to Mr. Blank.” Now it just so happens that that line should read “This report will introduce you to Mr. Lane,” for I am responsible for that report. It was not written until after he had consulted with me, and I dictated an outline of its terms. … As always, cordially yours,
Franklin K. Lane
To his Brother on his Birthday
Washington, [August, 1914]
… This is somewhere around your birthday time, isn’t it? Well, if it is, you are about forty-nine years of age and I look upon you as the one real philosopher that I know. I’d trade all that I have by way of honors and office for the nobility and serenity of your character. You feel that you have not done enough for the world. So do we all. But you have done far more than most of us, for you have proved your own soul. You have made a soul. You have taught some of us what a real man may be in this devilish world of selfishness. What other man of your acquaintance has the affection of men who know him for the nobility of his nature? I don’t know one. You know many who are lovable, like—sympathetic like myself, brilliant, sweet-tempered,—lots of them. But who are the noble ones? Who look at all things asking only, “What is worthy?” And doing that thing only. You tell the world that you will not conform to all its littlenesses. That, I haven’t at all the courage to do. You tell the world that you are not willing to feed your vanity with your everlasting soul. Where are the rest of us, judged by that test?
Ah, my dear boy, you have inspired many a fellow you don’t know anything about, with a desire to emulate you, and always to emulate something that is genuine and big in you—not a trick of speech or a small quality of mind or manner. I envy you—and so do many. Nancy could tell you why you are worth while. She knows the genuine from the spurious. She knows the metal that rings true when tests come.
So there, … put all this inside of your smooth noddle and take a drink to me—a drink of “cald, cald water.”
And I just want you to understand that I am in no self-deprecatory mood right now, for I am in my office at eight o’clock of a Saturday evening, working away with all my might on some damned land cases, having had a dinner at my desk, consisting of two shredded-wheat biscuits with milk, and one pear. Now you can realize what a virtuous, self-appreciative mood I am in. No man denies himself dinner for the sake of work without being really vain.
And what is this I hear about your having neuritis and going to the hospital? Damn these nerves, I say! Damn them! I have to swelter here because I can’t let an electric fan play on my face, nor near me, without getting neuralgia. And swelter is the word, for it has been 104-5 degrees, with humidity, to boot, this week.
Nerves—that means a wireless system, keen to perceive, to feel, to know the things hidden to the mass. I look forward to years of torture with the accursed things. The only thing that relieves, and of course it does not cure, is osteopathy, stimulating the nerve where it enters the spine. But never let them touch the sore place. That is fatal. It raises all the devils and they begin scraping on the strings at once.
Well, by the time this reaches you I hope you will be quite a bit fitter. Avoid strain. Don’t lift. Don’t carry. If you stretch the infernal wires they curl up and squeal.
May the God of Things as they Are be good to you. … Mother may know all about us. How I wish I could know that it was so. You have the philosophy that says—“Well, if it is best, she does.” I wish I had it. My God, how I do cling to what scraps of faith I have and put them together to make a cap for my poor head. With all the love I have.
Frank
To Cordenio Severance
Washington, September 24,1914
My dear Cordy,—I have just received your note. Why don’t you come down here and spend three or four days resting up? Nancy and Anne will be delighted to cart you around in the victoria and show you all the beautiful trees and a sunset or two, and we will give you some home cooking and put you on your feet, and then you will have an opportunity to beg forgiveness for not having gone up to Essex. I am mighty sorry that you have been ill. If we had had the faintest notion that you were, we would have stayed in New York to see you, but as it was we came down on the Albany boat and we went directly from the boat to the train. I think that we would have stopped over two or three hours and seen you anyway if it had not been for the presence of our dog, who was regarded by the women as the most important member of the family.
Did you ever travel with a dog? We came down through Lake George, and the Secretary of the Interior sat on a beer box in the prow of the steamship, surrounded by automobiles and kerosine oil cans and cooks and roustabouts, because they would not let a dog go on the salon deck. Only my sense of humor saved me from beating my wife and child, and throwing the dog overboard. On the train some member of the family had to stay with the dog and hold his paw while he was in the baggage car. The trouble with you and me is that we are not ugly enough to receive such attention. If we had undershot jaws and projecting teeth and no nose, we probably would be regarded with greater tenderness and attention.
Ned is at Phillips-Exeter and is the most homesick kid you ever heard of. He writes two letters a day and has sent for his Bible, and tells us he is going to church. If that is no evidence, then I am no judge of a psychological state.
Come on down. Faithfully yours,
FRANKLIN K. LANE