“See here, Mr. Ryan,” he said, “I understand that Jerry, my neighbour across the street, has his property assessed at $5,000. Now I don’t think that’s fair. I’m assessed at only $4,000 and I’m sure my house cost a good deal more than his. As a matter of fact it cost over $6,000. Now I’m a Judge of the Superior Court; I get my income out of taxes and I certainly have no disposition to pay any less than my share.”
“Well, Judge, your Honour,” said Mr. Ryan, “that is a sentiment very befitting your Honour. Now I’ll just be after goin’ over and lookin’ at those houses of Jerry’s, and then I’ll come back and look at yours.”
I watched them as they went over to the other houses; then I saw them go up the street a way and down the street a way, looking us carefully over from every possible viewpoint. When they came in they wore a very judicial aspect and I expected to see taxes go up with one wild leap.
“Well, Judge, your Honour,” began Mr. Ryan, “I think you’re givin’ yourself unnecessary concern. We assess houses for what they’re worth and not for what they cost. While your house no doubt suits your taste, it has a peculiar architectural style that wouldn’t please very many people, and certainly it ain’t to compare with those houses of Jerry’s. There’s a modern polish about those houses that will rent, Judge, your Honour.”
My son Robert was born in this house on McMillan Street in September, 1889. In the following February an interruption occurred in our peaceful existence which was welcome at least to me. President Harrison offered the appointment of Solicitor General of the United States to Mr. Taft and he, with a few regretful glances at his beloved Bench, accepted it. I think that once again it was Major Butterworth who suggested my husband’s name to the appointing power. I was very glad because it gave Mr. Taft an opportunity for exactly the kind of work I wished him to do; work in which his own initiative and originality would be exercised and developed. I looked forward with interest, moreover, to a few years in Washington.
Mr. Taft made his first official arrival in Washington alone. My baby, Robert, was only six months old and I concluded to remain in Cincinnati until my husband could make arrangements for our comfortable reception. His description of his first day in Washington is, in the light of later events, rather amusing.
He arrived at six o’clock on a cold, gloomy February morning at the old dirty Pennsylvania station. He wandered out on the street with a heavy bag in his hand looking for a porter, but there were no porters. Then he stood for a few moments looking up at the Capitol and feeling dismally unimportant in the midst of what seemed to him to be very formidable surroundings. He wondered to himself why on earth he had come. He was sure he had made a fatal mistake in exchanging a good position and a pleasant circle at home, where everybody knew him, for a place in a strange and forbidding city where he knew practically nobody and where, he felt sure, nobody wanted to know him. He lugged his bag up to the old Ebbitt House and, after eating a lonesome breakfast, he went to the Department of Justice to be sworn in. After that ceremony was over and he had shaken hands with the Attorney General, he went up to inspect the Solicitor General’s Office, and there he met the most dismal sight of the whole dismal day. His “quarters” consisted of a single room, three flights up, and bearing not the slightest resemblance to his mental picture of what the Solicitor General’s offices would be like. The Solicitor General’s stenographer, it seemed, was a telegrapher in the chief clerk’s office and had to be sent for when his services were required. Altogether it must have been a very disheartening outlook.
As Mr. Taft sat looking over briefs and other papers, and trying to get some definite idea about his new work, a messenger brought in a card.
“Mr. Evarts, New York,” it read.
Evarts was a well-known name, of course, but it was hard for Mr. Taft to believe that the William M. Evarts, leader of the American Bar and then Senator from New York, could be calling on the Solicitor General of less than a day. He knew that Wm. M. Evarts had known his father.
Mr. Evarts entered.
“Mr. Taft,” he said, as he gave my husband’s hand a cordial grasp, “I knew your father. I was in the class of ’37 at Yale and he had graduated before I entered; but he was there as a tutor in my time and I valued his friendship very highly.”
Then the visitor came straight to the point.
“Mrs. Evarts and I are giving a dinner tonight for my former partner and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Choate. Mr. Choate is in Washington for a short time to argue a case before the Supreme Court. Now, unfortunately, one of our guests has sent word that he can’t come and I thought, perhaps, considering my long-standing friendship with your father, you might consent to waive ceremony and fill the place at our table at this short notice.”
My husband accepted the invitation with almost undue alacrity, and when his guest left started in on his new duties feeling that, after all, Washington might afford just
