Everybody's Uncle

SAM WARD, "KING OF THE LOBBY" by Lately Thomas. 533 pages. Houghfon Mifflin. $6.95.

"The uncle of the human race and prince of good livers!" The line appeared in London's Vanity Fair and described a beguiling American who counted among his friends Bismarck, the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII), Thomas Huxley, President Garfield, the Emperor of Brazil, Tennyson, Thackeray and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

But Samuel Ward was no mere social ornament. For more than 20 years, he was Washington's most influential lobbyist--not the first but certainly the most spectacular of that maligned but necessary breed.

Burgeoning under the demands of a growing nation, post-Civil War Washington badly needed someone to steer outsiders to the right place. Ward became the guide, shepherding clients to the proper bureaus and pushing bills through Congress by means of his influence on Congressmen. He also became a power in his own right. He rallied support for the measures that saved U.S. currency from ruin after the Civil War, and he helped line up the votes that kept President Andrew Johnson from being impeached. He represented railroads, shipping lines, foreign nations, and even the Mormons, whom he helped win a federal land grant in Utah. Ward was not above gross trickery: once, for a $5,000 fee, he arranged to have the shoes of a Congressman misplaced to keep him from attending a crucial committee meeting. But for the most part he did not need to resort to this sort of thing--he had the run of the Government. Congressmen and Cabinet members alike called him "the King."

Graduated Gifts. Ward was the son of a wealthy New York banker. He spent four frolicsome student years in Europe, lumbering about the Continent in a huge carriage fitted out with sleeping accommodations for two. Returning home, he married the granddaughter of John Jakob Astor, then the richest man in the U.S. His European polish might have seemed a liability in American politics, but he knew just how to put it to good use. Operating on the principle that "the shortest distance between a pending bill and a Congressman's aye is through his stomach," he installed a French chef in his kitchen and invited Washington's notables. He was a master of the graduated political gift; Presidents occasionally might receive a case of Madeira, while Cabinet members would rate only terrapin, and Congressmen wound up with canvasback duck. Ward never arm-twisted guests or mentioned his interests, but when a bill of his reached the floor, former tablemates would receive a note: "This is my little lamb. Be good." Though he helped others make money, Ward could never hold on to it himself; before turning to lobbying, he had lost his family's Wall Street fortune and made and lost two others in California. Finally, weary of Washington, Sam returned to New York, putting up at one of the best hotels, the Brevoort, "where no creditors would think of looking for me."

Nation's Teacher. Then, melodramatically, Ward's life changed again. In from San Francisco came a man whom Sam had nursed to health years before--James R. Keene, who had lately made $4,000,000 in gold shares. Aided by Ward's Wall Street connections, Keene parlayed his bankroll into a $13 million fortune--and handed $750,000 to Sam.

The new-found wealth enabled Ward to return to gastronomy. With the press breathlessly reporting the details of his banquets, Ward taught the nation to eat better and more elegantly.

Once, when Ward was still broke, a friend asked what he would do if he should somehow hit it rich again. Replied Ward: "Have myself declared a lunatic. Otherwise it would all be got out of me in a week." Actually, his fourth fortune lasted ten years, but Ward was again hiding in Italy from creditors when he died at 70 from the aftereffects of eating tainted oysters.

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