Fifty Years of Public Service Personal Recollections of Shelby M. Cullom, Senior United States Senator from Illinois — A Reader’s Guide

A Senatorial Voice, Plain and Purposeful

Cullom's prose is unadorned but not artless. He writes in the first person throughout, often addressing the reader directly with phrases like "I knew him as a member of the Illinois Legislature." His sentences are typically declarative and of moderate length, though he occasionally strings together clauses in a manner that suggests spoken reminiscence. The vocabulary is that of a working politician: precise when discussing procedure, more relaxed when describing personalities. He refers to himself as "I" or "the writer" without self-importance, and his judgments—such as calling Justice Scholfield "never an abler or better lawyer"—are stated as settled fact.

The pace of the narrative varies with the subject. When recounting political contests or appointments, Cullom builds momentum through a sequence of short, action-driven sentences: "He at once sent out word for me to come in, that he wanted to see me." In reflective passages, the rhythm slows, allowing for longer paragraphs that weigh a man's character or the significance of a decision. This shift in pace is one of the memoir's subtler structural features, guiding the reader from event to analysis without explicit signposting.

The Texture of Political Life

Cullom's memoir is rich with the small, telling details that bring nineteenth-century politics to life. He notes, for instance, that President Cleveland received him "about nine o'clock one morning" and that the Chief Justice appointment required him to "raise the devil in Congress" if a mistake were made. Such language reveals the informal, back-channel nature of high-level negotiation. Cullom also records the reasoning of those who declined office: Justice Scholfield feared Washington society would "ruin" his children, a domestic consideration that humanizes a figure otherwise known only through judicial opinions.

The excerpts show a consistent attention to the logistics of power—who spoke to whom, at what hour, and with what result. Cullom does not merely list events; he reconstructs conversations, sometimes with direct quotation, as when he tells Cleveland, "the selection of a Chief Justice is one of the greatest duties you have to perform." These reconstructed dialogues give the memoir an immediacy that a more formal history would lack, though the reader must remember that they are recalled years later and may reflect the author's perspective as much as the actual words spoken.

Pacing and the Art of the Anecdote

Cullom's narrative rhythm is shaped by his use of anecdote. He often begins a chapter or section with a broad statement—"President Cleveland was in a considerable quandary"—then narrows to a specific episode, such as the consideration of Judge Phelps and Justice Scholfield. The anecdote unfolds in a series of steps: the problem, the rejected candidates, the eventual choice, and the confirmation struggle. This pattern gives the memoir a steady, almost procedural pace, but Cullom varies it by inserting personal observations or asides that break the forward motion.

For example, after describing the Fuller nomination, he pauses to reflect: "But this was only the prelude to the real struggle." Such comments signal a shift in pace, preparing the reader for a more detailed account of the Senate fight. Elsewhere, he accelerates by omitting background and jumping directly into dialogue: "I said to him: 'Mr. President, the selection of a Chief Justice is one of the greatest duties you have to perform.'" These changes in tempo keep the narrative from becoming monotonous, even when the subject matter is parliamentary procedure or judicial appointments.

Readers approaching Cullom's memoir should attend to its dual nature: it is both a personal record and a historical document. The author's voice—plain, confident, occasionally wry—shapes every page, and the pace shifts subtly to match the significance of the events described. Because the excerpts cover only portions of the text, one cannot assume that the entire work maintains this rhythm, but the patterns evident here suggest a writer who understood how to make political memory readable. Treat the anecdotes as recollections, not transcripts, and the judgments as those of a participant, not a historian.

I have spent many evenings with Senator Cullom’s memoir, listening to him speak of Lincoln and the slow grind of justice. And I often think of another old friend, The Great Conspiracy, Volume 6 — Background and Themes, which shares that same patient, solemn ache for a nation holding itself together. They whisper to each other across my shelves.