-Caveat Lector- An excerpt from: The Ohio Gang Charles L. Mee, Jr.�1981 M. Evans and Company, Inc. 216 East 49th Street New York, New York 10017 ISBN 0-87131-340-5 248 pps � out-of-print/one edition --[15]-- XLIII. The President Aspires To Surpass Himself DAVID LAWRENCE, WHO was then writing a syndicated newspaper column, was the first to break the news that the president had sworn off alcohol. Previously there had been suggestions off the record of presidential abstemiousness; but Lawrence's story had the authority of an official announcement: Harding had quit drinking. He seemed, at last, to be trying, as Hoover thought he wished to do, to rise above himself. "Something new," said Samuel Hopkins Adams, "was stirring in him." He was no longer tolerating his old political cronies. "Office seekers," said the down-home political commentator "Uncle Henry," in Collier's magazine, "wear nose guards and shin protectors when they go to the White House nowadays, an' even then they come out bruised to the color of a California plum." The patronage dispensers were being given short shrift. Rumors circulated in Washington that Daugherty would resign at any moment. Opposition from the Old Guard senators and the bosses was no longer being tolerated by the White House. Harding even went so far�over the objections of Nan's former employer, Judge Gary of U.S. Steel�as to declare that the twelve-hour workday was a relic of the past and must be ended. Doubtless Harding was looking forward to the election of 1924, and some of his restless stirring was nothing but electioneering. Yet, everyone sensed a new purposiveness about the president, a renewed wish to be truly presidential. Whether it was "something new" that stirred in him, as Adams thought, or something as old as an Ohio schoolboy's reverence for the office of the presidency, none of the Washington insiders failed to notice the change. Early in the spring of 1923, Harding decided to move out into the country, to get out of Washington and take a trip through the Middle West and West and on up into Alaska, to try to gather a constituency for a fresh start. He had no great new slogan for himself, but he did his best to come up with something; he decided to call his trip a "Voyage of Understanding." He departed on June 20, with the Duchess and twenty-two newspaper reporters, five photographers, ten Secret Service men, Doc Sawyer, his secretary George Christian, and other friends and aides. As they moved across the country�stopping now and again in small towns for Harding to stand out on the platform in the sun to make a short speech�he played bridge, talked, and moved restlessly from one side of the car to the other to look out the windows at the passing countryside. He was almost never alone, almost never still. He had determined to aspire to statesmanship, to redeem himself by casting his presidency suddenly above the sordidness of the politics of the Ohio Gang to some grander plane. But by this time, he was so out of practice at aspiring, his imagination had been so little used in such terms, that he could not think of anything too wonderful. He chose to speak in favor of a World Court�as though he would invent the very context in which he himself would be judged good. The World Court was, by this time, a safely popular issue. It was an issue that could attract the old League of Nations crowd�and, at the same time, bring in a lot of others who despised the league but loved the notion of standing for something noble in the world community. The World Court would be something the country could join without being bound in any real way by any international accords. Four out of five voters favored a world court. Harding had hardly taken a courageous position. He thought he had: his support for the World Court put him in direct opposition to those fearsome old Republican warhorses in the Senate. But Harding had had so little practice in courage that he gave himself more credit than he deserved in standing up for the World Court. He chose to speak out first in St. Louis�and that, too, was something that must have seemed courageous to him, since St. Louis was the very bastion of isolationism in America. "I shall not restrict my appeal to your reason," Harding said. "I shall call upon your patriotism. I shall beseech your humanity. I shall invoke your Christianity." He believed in his cause: he had come at this late date to an issue that perfectly mixed opportunism and idealism, bravery and expediency, vote getting and nobility; it was so wonderful an issue that it might have made him weep. "I shall reach to the very depths of your love for your fellow countrymen of whatever race or creed throughout the world. . . . My soul yearns for peace. My heart is anguished by the sufferings of war. My spirit is eager to serve. My passion is for justice over force. My hope is in the great court. My mind is made up. My resolution is fixed." He had meant, before he left on his tour, to speak of the World Court only once or twice. But, as the tour went on, he returned to the subject again and again, expanding on it. As time went on, he discovered that, no matter what the topic of his speech was supposed to be, he almost always worked his way back around to the World Court. He believed in it�and it seemed a relief to him to be able to pour out his heart about something in which he believed. Doc Sawyer worried about the president. Harding spoke too often, and although the Middle West was languishing in a heat wave, Harding insisted on getting out at every whistle stop for a speech�until his lips had become blistered by the sun, and Doc Sawyer had to apply ice compresses. Harding worked and reworked his speeches with his own hand, polishing the text so that he was saying just what he wanted. By the time he reached Kansas City, William Allen White noticed that "his lips were swollen and blue, his eyes puffed, and his hands seemed stiff when I shook hands with him." Still, he would not slow down. In Salt Lake City, he spoke in the auditorium of the Mormon Tabernacle. He was scheduled to speak on the subject of taxation, but he set his text aside at one point. "I am seeking," he said, "American sentiment in favor of an international court of justice. I want America to play her part in helping to abolish war. I want America to have something of a spiritual ideal." Doc Sawyer became more worried the farther they traveled. By the time the train had reached the Far West, Harding's manner of speaking had become not merely sad but somehow heavy. He was unable to bring himself to make many gestural flourishes. He seemed greatly burdened. By the time they had reached Yellowstone Canyon, Sawyer had told the president that he must not climb any long flights of stairs. The doctor was worried about Harding's heart. Herbert Hoover joined the presidential party in Tacoma, Washington, to go along on the thousand-mile voyage up into Alaska. The president's entourage all went aboard the ship with happy thoughts of shuffleboard and relaxation, and, indeed, there were movies every night; the navy band held concerts three times a day; there was group singing; there was shuffleboard on the deck. Harding, however, seemed little interested in all these activities. He wanted, rather�compulsively�to play cards. For Hoover, the voyage was dreadful. "As soon as we were aboard ship," Hoover recalled, Harding "insisted on playing bridge, beginning every day immediately after breakfast and continuing except for mealtime often until after midnight. There were only four other bridge players in the party, and we soon set up shifts so that one at a time had some relief" Harding "played late and slept ill," Samuel Hopkins Adams said. "In his devitalized state he wanted and doubtless needed a drink. But now-conclusive evidence of his fidelity to his new principles�there was nothing available. The presidential luggage carried no liquor." The president was preoccupied, exhausted, unable to rest, and driven. Still he spoke, and continued to speak, of the World Court, and of his hope that his administration would go down in history as a "period of understanding." pps.215-219 ===== XLIV. The Past Catches Up JUST AFTER THE ship had reached its northernmost point and turned, as it started to make its way back south, down the glaciers along the Alaska coast, a seaplane caught up with the ship, and a long message, in code, was handed to the president. The message came from Washington. "After reading it," said Adams, "he suffered something like a collapse." The old indigestion took hold of him again. He retreated to his stateroom and asked Hoover to Join him there. The moment Hoover entered the stateroom, Harding "plumped" a question at him: "If you knew of a great scandal in our administration, would you for the good of the country and the party expose it publicly or would you bury it?" "Publish it," said Hoover, "and at least get credit for integrity on your side." Harding said that it might be "politically dangerous." Hoover asked for more particulars. The president said, as Hoover recalled, "that he had received some rumors of irregularities, centering around Smith, in connection with cases in the Department of justice.... Harding gave me no information about what Smith had been up to. I asked what Daugherty's relations to the affair were. He abruptly dried up. . . ." Harding told no one what the message contained, nor from whom it had come. The message itself was destroyed, and no one has since been able to trace it. It may have dealt with an indiscretion of Jess Smith's�apparently involving Daugherty: it could have been any one of so many things, something involving fight films or the American Metals case or some oil deal. Probably it was something having to do with bootlegging, but it hardly mattered which of Jess's and Harry's schemes it was: one thread would do as well as any other to begin unraveling Harding's adminstration. Just at the moment that Harding had decided�however imperfectly, with whatever lack of practice or imagination or energy�to surpass himself, he was seized and held by his past. Harding began to come apart. As the ship came in through heavy fog to Puget Sound, it struck a destroyer amidships with a terrible crash, and the cry went up for "All hands on deck!" Harding's valet found the president in his stateroom, lying on his bunk, his face buried in his hands. Harding remained motionless and, without looking up, asked his valet what had happened. When told of the accident, he said quietly, his head still buried in his hands, "I hope the boat sinks." The next day, in Seattle, the president went ashore to deliver a speech to a crowd of 60,000 who had gathered in the city's stadium under a devastating sun. Adams thought the president seemed confused. Others noticed that his face was deeply lined with exhaustion and, it seemed, with pain. When he spoke, referring to his voyage up the coast of Alaska, he hesitated several times, slurred his words, and referred to Alaska as "Nebraska." Halfway through the speech, he faltered, dropped his manuscript, and reached out to grasp the lectern to hold himself erect. Hoover, who had been sitting just behind the president, reached down, picked up the pages from the floor, and handed them back to the president. It seemed to Adams for a moment as though Harding "were going to give up the struggle," but the president mastered his weakness "by an effort of will," and finished. That night, said Adams, Harding "suffered what was diagnosed as acute indigestion. Surgeon General Sawyer ... made the diagnosis.... Crab meat was identified as the cause of the upset." Harding had been wandering about restlessly the night before and had found Reddy Baldinger, a journalist who had been one of Harding's old newsboys on the Marion Star. Baldinger was sitting alone in the dining room with a mess of crabs he had bought for himself, and Harding had joined him to share the crabs and talk of the old days. The president was told to rest, and another of the members of the party, Doctor Joel Boone, took Hoover aside and told him confidentially that Harding was suffering from heart trouble. The president's speaking dates were canceled, but his journey was continued: the party boarded a train for San Francisco, and by the time he arrived at San Francisco Station, on Sunday morning, July 29, Harding thought he felt better, and he spurned a wheelchair and walked, slowly, to a car. "But his skin," said Adams, "grayish and flabby, his gait, torpid and lifeless, were testimony enough to the fact that only courage was sustaining him. The last pictures, taken as he went to the Palace Hotel, show a face beginning to sag, to lose its firm outlines as the muscular structure weakened. He was an old, drawn man, squinting into the sunlight with a painful, determined smile." Daugherty flew into San Francisco from the capital�on other business, he said�and then, strangely enough, did not see Harding. Although a room was available for him at the Palace Hotel, Daugherty checked in at the St. Francis. Harding was put to bed at once and a distinguished heart specialist, who had been notified in advance, took over his care. On Monday, Harding took a bad turn. His temperature rose to 102 and his pulse to 120, and according to another San Francisco physician who had been called in, he was rapidly developing bronchial pneumonia. On Tuesday, he seemed better, and by Wednesday, he had so recovered that he was sitting up in bed, taking solid food, and reading the newspapers. His temperature was normal, and his pulse rate had dropped down below 100. By Thursday, Harding felt well enough that he thought he would be able to head for home on Sunday. By late Thursday afternoon, he was saying that he was "out of the woods," although he did feel "so tired, so tired." Daugherty still neglected to pay a visit, though others did. On Thursday evening, Colonel Starling, who had always followed Harding around the golf course to keep track of his side bets, dropped by, and the president told Starling that he only regretted not having caught any fish in Alaska. After dinner, the Duchess came in to sit by his bed and to read an article to him that had appeared in the Saturday Evening Post, a piece about Harding called "A Calm View of a Calm Man." The article said that Harding was following a good, steady course as president. "That's good," Harding said. "Go on; read some more." The Duchess read the article through to the end and then went across the hall to her own room, leaving Harding with his nurse. The nurse, having gone to get a glass of water to give the president with his medication, returned to the room just in time to see Harding, still stitting[sic] up in bed, give a slight twitch and then slump to one side, his head falling down to his shoulder, his mouth open. pps. 220-226 ===== Epilogue WHEN HARDING DIED, the members of the Ohio Gang fell apart like planets bereft of the sun. Calvin Coolidge, who had been chosen as an afterthought to be the vice-presidential candidate at the 1920 Republican convention, succeeded to the office of president, and suddenly probity was the fashion in Washington. Charlie Forbes became the subject of a congressional investigation almost at once. "I worked sixteen long hours a day," he said in his own defense, naturally counting in the hours of his social drinking, flattering, flirting, and seducing, "and I have been charged," he said with a charming inability to focus on just what the charges were, "with inefficiency; but I will stake my education against anyone who has made that charge of inefficiency against me." Forbes felt he had not been truly understood. Whatever technicalities of law he might have violated�as had, lamentably, lots of others�he thought, after all, his feelings ought to be taken into account, for, as far as his intentions were concerned, he was absolutely pure: "no man," he said with conviction, "loved the ex-serviceman any better than I did." And yet, nothing saved him. The blackening of his reputation proceeded. He concluded at last that Mortimer and Doc Sawyer had engaged in some sort of conspiracy against him, or-more likely-that he had fallen victim to "politics." In the winter of 1924-25, he was tried and convicted on the charges of bribery and conspiracy, fined $10,000, and sentenced to two years in Leavenworth. As for Albert Fall, Harry Sinclair, and Edward Doheny, another congressional committee looked into their dealings in painstaking detail. Fall tried at first to run, moving from his ranch to Chicago to New York, trying to dodge subpoenas, taking to drink, and finally checking into a hospital, "too run-down," according to his doctor, to appear before the committee. Nonetheless, the investigation ground on until all three men�and Doheny's son, who had delivered a bribe to Fall�were all thoroughly discredited and, in the end, brought up for trial in the District of Columbia. In the first trial of Fall and Doheny, the two men were acquitted, though both were chastened. Doheny had begun to look somewhat pale; his cockiness had begun to ring hollow. Fall walked with a cane by this time, slowly, his feet shuffling. The investigations and hearings and trials had begun to wear him down. In another trial, this one of Harry Sinclair for contempt of the Senate (for having refused to answer some questions), Sinclair was sentenced to three months in jail. In October of 1927, Fall and Sinclair went on trial for criminal conspiracy. By this time, even Sinclair had begun to break under the pressure, and he hired some private detectives to try to fix the jury. The case was thrown out; Sinclair was tried for 'jury tampering, and sentenced to six months in the Washington Asylum and jail. Although Sinclair seemed to survive his ordeal with relative ease, Doheny suffered from the trials. During the course of all the investigations, his son had been shot to death by his secretary and Doheny's heart had been broken. Every time his son's name was mentioned in the course of the trial, Doheny would begin to weep uncontrollably. The jury, taking pity on him, found him innocent of giving a bribe to Fall. Doheny died several years later, in bed, half-mad. When Fall was tried in the very same court, he was found guilty of receiving the bribe that Doheny had been found innocent of giving him. By the time Fall was brought to trial, he had to be delivered to the courtroom in a wheelchair, with a doctor and a nurse in attendance. It seemed that he was merely staging a plea for sympathy, until, in the first day of the trial, he collapsed with a hemorrhage. Although the lawyers wanted to postpone the trial, Fall insisted on going ahead so that he might be vindicated. In the end, he was found guilty and sentenced to the state penitentiary in Sante Fe to which he was taken in an ambulance, because he was suffering from arteriosclerosis, tuberculosis, and pleurisy, among other ailments. He survived his sentence, but his Three River Ranch, for which he had done what he had done, so that he might leave something to his children, was sold at a sheriffs auction to pay his debts. He and his wife were evicted from the ranch, and they moved to a small, down-at-heel house in El Paso, where his wife supported the two of them by working in a lunchroom and canning vegetables at home. She died in 1943, he the next year. Gaston B. Means, the irrepressible liar, was finally brought up on charges of conspiracy, and although he managed to implicate Daugherty, Mellon, and Harding in the course of his defense, he was sent up for two years. Jail did not improve his character. He surfaced again in 1932, when the infamous kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby seized the attention of so many people. Gaston, remembering his old acquaintances from Harding days, got in touch with Evalyn Walsh McLean and told her that he knew right where the Lindbergh baby was. If she would only come up with $100,000 ransom and a few thousand expenses, he would use his contacts to save the child. Evalyn gave him the money and never saw it again. She did, however, hate to be swindled. Means went on trial for larceny, was sentenced to fifteen years, and died of a heart attack while serving his term at Leavenworth. George Remus not only went to Jail in the Atlanta penitentiary, but he discovered that he was not even able to purchase a parole or reduction of sentence. The rectitude of Mabel Willebrandt prevailed. Remus asked his wife Imogene, who had stayed loyally with him through all his troubles, to try to arrange something through a young fellow named Franklin Dodge, who worked for Mrs. Willebrandt in the Department of Justice. Even though Remus was in jail, Imogene had the resources of a forty or fifty million dollar business�still active, and with a high cash flow�to draw on for spending money. Imogene got to know the tall, handsome Dodge, but she seemed unable to arrange anything for Remus. Remus served his full term at Atlanta, and although he began to hear nasty rumors about his wife and Dodge, he knew why Imogene was being friendly to Dodge, and so he was not worried. Two days before he was to be released from the penitentiary, he made a point of issuing a statement to the press, saying that he knew that his wife was faithful to him, that he was grateful to her for her loyalty to him, and that he loved her. The next day, he was informed that Imogene had filed suit for divorce. The following day, when he was released from the Atlanta jail, he was picked up at once by agents who arrested him again and took him on a train to be arraigned in Dayton for "maintaining a nuisance" at Death Valley Farm. Evidently the fix was in after all, but not in his favor. In time, Remus began to hear rumors that Imogene had transferred some of their properties to Dodge, that Dodge was helping her run the distillery business, and that Imogene and Dodge had hired a hit man to kill Remus. While Remus had been serving time in the Dayton jail, Imogene had instituted proceedings to have him deported as an undesirable alien. Although Remus thought of himself as a Chicagoan, he had been born in Germany, and his parents had not come to the United States until he was five years old. Government archives seemed to contain no record of the naturalization papers of Remus's father. When Remus got out of jail, he decided to put himself back in business by stealing 95,000 gallons of his own whiskey from Imogene. Moving a fleet of trucks into one of his warehouses early one morning, Remus was stopped by federal marshals, who protected what had become Imogene's property. With that, his patience broke. When at last Remus had to appear in court to settle the divorce terms with Imogene, he got up early in the morning and told his chauffeur to take him around to the Alms Hotel, where Imogene was staying with her twenty-year-old daughter. Imogene came out of the hotel at eight o'clock that morning with her daughter and stepped into a waiting cab. Remus told his driver to follow the cab; when Imogene's daughter saw Remus's limousine, she told the cab driver to move faster. Remus began to make frantic signals to have the cab pull over. Imogene told the cab driver to stop. Her daughter told the driver to go faster. Remus shouted at his driver to cut the cab off. The two cars raced through traffic and into Eden Park, with Remus's driver trying to squeeze the cab off the road. At last, speeding down Eden Park Drive, the limousine pulled ahead of the cab, and cut in front of it. Remus jumped out. Imogene's daughter tried to get out the right side of the cab, but her mother pulled her back and opened the door on the left side. Remus ran around the cab, took Imogene by the wrist, and pulled her out into the roadway, shouting, "I'll fix you! I'll fix you." "Oh, Daddy," Imogene cried, "you know I love you! You know I love you! Daddy, don't do it! Don't do it!" He put the pistol to her stomach and shot once, and Imogene fell to the ground with a scream. Her daughter jumped from the cab and took Remus by the lapels, shouting, "Do you realize what you're doing?" Remus looked at the girl abstractedly and said quietly, "She can't get away with that." While Imogene bled to death on the roadway, Remus walked slowly out of the park and caught a cab to the First District Police Station, where he turned himself in. At his trial, he defended himself, pleading temporary insanity. He presented the story of his marriage, of his jailings, and of his wife's affair with Franklin Dodge, and of the way his wife and Dodge had taken his business, hired a hit man, and tried to have him deported, and he convinced the jury that he had been overtaken by an uncontrollable rage. He was acquitted by the jury and set free. He was, however, a broken man. His business was in shambles, and he no longer had the energy to start anew. He drifted for some years, and died at last, without much money, in a small house in Kentucky. Harry Daugherty tried to hold onto his office as attorney general after Harding's death, but a Senate committee began to investigate him again. The committee asked for documents bearing on such issues as bootlegging, the distribution of fight films, oil deals, failure to prosecute large corporations on monopoly cases; but Daugherty declined to produce any documents. When the heat got to be more than Coolidge could bear, he asked for Daugherty's resignation, and Daugherty, protesting his innocence of all charges, gave up his office- grumbling that the senators who started the investigation were "received in the inner Soviet circles as comrades." Under no circumstances, Daugherty said, would he let these fellows see his files; it was a matter of national security. He spent his last years in Columbus and Palm Beach, regarding himself as a respected elder statesman of the Republican party, whose reputation was not even tarnished by the fact that his brother Mally was sentenced to ten years in the penitentiary for embezzlement, false entries in his books at the Washington Court House bank, and lying to bank examiners. (Happily, Mally's conviction was overturned in the Ohio Court of Appeals.) Harry lived on to 1941, giving him ample time to write his autobiography, which explained everything. Nan Britton, short of cash as always, married a ship's captain in January of 1924, and then discovered the captain was neither as rich nor as kind as he had pretended. She had the marriage annulled and then turned to the Harding family for financial help. When the Emily failed to help her or her daughter with a large settlement, she published her memoirs, The President's Daughter, which caused a sensation and brought her temporary wealth. Once that money was gone, she settled down at last in Evanston, Illinois, where she worked in an employment agency and raised her daughter. Elizabeth Ann graduated from Sullivan High School in Evanston and was married in 1938 to a man with whom she had three children and settled down in California. Carrie Phillips persuaded her husband to leave the house�after he had lost most of his money in the Great Depression�and take up residence in a back room of the Hotel Marion. He died in 1939, and she moved on, from the house on Gospel Hill to one closer to Harding's old home. Over the years, she turned increasingly in on herself. She had few friends, then no friends; she stayed always in her house. She supported herself by raising German shepherd dogs. The most she had to do with the outside world was to fight off the board of health when they raised objections to the conditions and the odor of her backyard kennels. By 1956 she was so poor and so disheveled and unable to care for herself, that she was placed, by court order, in the Willetts Home for the Elderly in Marion, where she died in 1960. Her possessions were auctioned off�except for a box of letters found in a locked closet, the letters to her from Harding. For several weeks after Harding's death, it was said, smoke could be seen rising from the White House chimney. Mrs. Harding was burning the president's papers. She did indeed burn most of the papers she could find�papers from the president's desk, from the wall safe on the second floor, letters, confidential papers, boxes of files, suitcases full of papers, the contents of a safe deposit box. She had started, at first, to look through the files, sort them out, burn whatever might hurt her husband's reputation, save whatever historical documents might cast him in a good light. But she became exhausted and disgusted with the project as time went on. Overcome by fatigue, she would toss boxes onto flames without looking to see what was in them. She returned to Marion, then, and had the remaining boxes of papers sent on after her. She took up residence at Doc Sawyer's farm, and there she went on with her work on Harding's papers. Sometimes she would save a part of a letter, tearing off the top or bottom of the page, burning the rest, and in this way she spent her weeks back home-sorting, ripping, and burning. During the next months, she and Doc Sawyer commiserated with one another as the congressional investigations and newspaper reporters began to savage the Harding years. By September of 1924, Doc Sawyer had died of a heart attack. By November, after a recurrence of her perennial kidney ailment, Mrs. Harding was dead, too, and the Harding era was ended�although, mischievously, the spirit of the Ohio Gang has never died. pps. 227-235 ===== Selected Bibliography IN ADDITION TO to the following secondary works, two sets of original documents were particularly useful: Investigation of the Honorable Harry M. Daugherty, Hearings before the Select Committee on Investigations of the Attorney General, U.S. Senate, 68th Congress, 1st Session, 3 volumes, Government Printing Office, 1924; and The Warren G. Harding Papers, which reside in the Ohio Historical Society in Columbus, and to which references are made in the Notes by the roll number of the 263-roll microfilm edition that the society maintains. Adams, Samuel H. Incredible Era. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1939. Alderfer, Harold F. "The Personality and Politics of Warren G. Harding." Ph.D. dissertation, Syracuse University, 1928. Allsop, Kenneth. The Bootleggers, London: Hutchinson & Co., 1961. Britton, Nan. The President's Daughter. New York: Elizabeth Ann Guild, 1927. Chapple, Joseph Mitchell. Life and Times of Warren G. Harding. Boston: Chapple Publishing Co., 1924. Coffey, Thomas. The Long Thirst. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1975. Daugherty, Harry M. The Inside Story of the Harding Tragedy. New York: Churchill Co., 1932. Giglio, James N. Harry M. Daugherty and the Politics of Expediency. Kent, Ohio: Kent State University Press, 1978. Gilbert, Clinton. The Mirrors of Washington. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1921, Hoover, Herbert. The Memoirs of Herbert Hoover: The Cabinet and the Presidency, 1920-1933. New York: Macmillan, 1952. Hoover, Irwin H. (Ike). Forty-two Years in the White House. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1934. Kohlsaat, H. H. From McKinley to Harding: Personal Recollections of Our Presidents. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1923. Longworth, Alice Roosevelt. Crowded Hours. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1933. Lowry, Edward G. Washington Close-ups. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1921. McLean, Evalyn Walsh. Father Struck It Rich. Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1936. Means, Gaston B. The Strange Death of President Harding. New York: Guild Publishing Co., 1930. Noggle, Burl. Teapot Dome: Oil and Politics in the 1920s. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1962. Reily, E. Mont. The Years of Confusion. Unpublished manuscript. Columbus, Ohio. The Ohio Historical Society. Harding Papers, Collection 61, Box 1. Russell, Francis. The Shadow of Blooming Grove, New York: McGraw-Hill Book Co., 1968. Sinclair, Andrew. The Available Man. New York: Macmillan, 1965. Starling, Edmund W. Starling of the White House. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1946. Stoddard, Henry L. As I Knew Them. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1927. Sullivan, Mark. Our Times. Vol. 6. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1935. Werner, Morris R. Privileged Characters. New York: R. M. McBride and Co., 1935. White, William A. The Autobioghraphy of William Allen White. New York: Macmillan, 1946. --fini-- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. Roads End Kris DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER ========== CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic screeds are not allowed. Substance�not soapboxing! These are sordid matters and 'conspiracy theory', with its many half-truths, misdirections and outright frauds is used politically by different groups with major and minor effects spread throughout the spectrum of time and thought. That being said, CTRL gives no endorsement to the validity of posts, and always suggests to readers; be wary of what you read. CTRL gives no credeence to Holocaust denial and nazi's need not apply. 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