When James A Garfield reluctantly accepted the Republican nomination for president in June 1880, he stepped into a fraught political culture that was governed by strict codes of restraint.

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Put simply, in the late 19th century, a presidential candidate wasn’t meant to appear eager for the job. Publicly courting votes was distasteful, demeaning, and incompatible with the dignity of the office. As biographer CW Goodyear puts it, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, the prevailing view was that “if you are interested in the job, it’s not for you.”

The job of actively campaigning was delegated to party operatives, loyal newspapers and travelling surrogates. The candidate was supposed to stay out of public view while conveying lofty neutrality.

On one level, that was a culture that suited Garfield. He was a man who, to all appearances, never intended to become the Republican party’s presidential nominee, let alone the actual president.

So how did he – who was both dignified and reluctant – end up being the man who dismantled such norms of dignified reluctance?

It feels like an irony, and yet, as Goodyear explains, Garfield’s election campaign of 1880 did indeed mark a turning point that upended the long-standing taboo against candidates speaking directly to voters. It changed campaign culture forever.

American presidential ideals in the 19th century

“It was seen as being desperate and pathetic for a presidential candidate to go rally voters. That was seen as being beneath the office,” explains Goodyear, setting out the attitudes that prevailed as the 1880 presidential election loomed.

But where had that notion come from?

The expectation that candidates should remain silent was rooted in early republican ideals inherited from the late 18th century, when the American colonies had won their independence from Britain and forged the United States of America. The Founding Fathers had worried that unrestrained electioneering might debase public life and turn politics into petty spectacle. As the USA expanded, the principle endured: it was parties that mobilised voters, while candidates remained above the fray.

It was this culture that Garfield – a former Union general, lawyer, minister and congressman – was suddenly forced into. In a divided Republican party, he was a compromise nominee who ostensibly hadn’t sought, or expected, the nomination. Upon being nominated at the 1880 Republican National Convention, he returned immediately to his “bucolic home life at his farm” in Mentor, Ohio, where he lived with his wife Lucretia Garfield and their children, to observe those rules of sober political propriety.

A portrait of US president James Garfield
A portrait of US president James Garfield. (Photo by Getty Images)

How Garfield’s farm became an unexpected political stage

Garfield was looking to “flee” from the public eye by returning home, says Goodyear.

Instead, his farm became the focus of national attention.

Spurred on by new railway expansion and mass political participation, voters saw a rare opportunity to meet a potential president face-to-face.

Goodyear describes how it was an opportunity for marginalised groups in particular, with “legions of black voters, wannabe women voters – who didn’t have the right to vote yet – and industrial groups” soon turning up at Garfield’s door, looking to catch a glimpse of this prospective leader.

This placed Garfield in an awkward position. Addressing them risked violating the taboo against campaigning directly to voters. But refusing to greet visitors would appear cold and inhospitable.

Clearly that wouldn’t do. Backed into a corner, Garfield chose courtesy. He fed his visitors and spoke with them. And, in doing so, inadvertently invented a new kind of political campaign.

A revolutionary presidential campaign

The “front porch campaign”, as it later became known, evolved almost organically. “Garfield goes out onto his front porch, and he gives all these impromptu speeches to these visitors,” says Goodyear.

These were informal and conversational, in sharp contrast to the scripted, lofty communication that previously defined presidential races.

For many Americans, this was the first time they had heard a presidential candidate address national issues directly. Newspapers reprinted his remarks, and political operatives recognised that Garfield had found a way to engage voters without appearing to pursue them.

“It was seen as being very revolutionary, and it was not uncontroversial,” says Goodyear.

“But Garfield was able to get around this by insisting that, ‘I'm not going out to talk to these people. I'm not asking them to vote for me. They are knocking on my front door. What am I to do? Just shut the door and put guards out and get the people to get away from me?’”

The political establishment was divided. Senior Republicans debated how much visibility Garfield could risk without undermining the decorum of the office. Democrat-backing newspapers accused him of encouraging spectacle.

Summing up the reaction of Garfield’s own party, Goodyear explains how one senior Republican, Senator James Blaine, who went on to be Garfield's Secretary of State, would later write and say: “Until this point in history, to have a presidential candidate comment on current events and issues, and his own opinions on them, was seen as being demeaning, and beneath the office.”

Without intending to, Garfield had just changed that norm. And with that change, the expectations of presidential campaigning had shifted too.

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Why Garfield’s approach succeeded

Garfield’s personal qualities made the experiment work. A trained orator and former college professor, he could speak fluently and without notes, adjusting his tone to suit his shifting audience of farmers, industrial workers, veterans and reform groups.

And crucially, because he never left Mentor, he could credibly claim he was not campaigning in the traditional sense.

In the end, it helped Garfield win the presidency, alongside his nominee for vice-president, Chester Arthur.

Garfield’s presidency was brief; he served only a few months before being shot by the deluded assassin Charles Guiteau. The president died from infection in September 1881.

But his unintentional ‘front porch’ campaign format became an accepted political strategy. In 1896, Republican nominee William McKinley would perfect it, orchestrating a highly choreographed version from his own home in Canton, Ohio.

Through the early 20th century, the distance between presidential candidates and voters continued to shrink. Train tours, national speaking circuits, radio broadcasts, and television debates all built on the same principle: that presidential hopefuls should directly persuade and speak to the electorate. In doing so, the presidential role has gradually evolved and has since been expected to be a more partisan figure than the Founding Fathers had envisioned.

Ultimately, Garfield’s campaign wasn’t just the “first front porch campaign in American history,” says Goodyear. It was “one of the first active presidential campaigns in US history.”

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CW Goodyear was speaking to Elinor Evans on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.

Authors

James OsborneDigital content producer

James Osborne is a digital content producer at HistoryExtra

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