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Cleveland’s advisors howled in protest. William Dorsheimer, a former lieutenant governor, told him flat-out that abandoning the governor’s mansion would send the wrong signal and “offend” the people of New York, who had provided their chief executive with an official residence that was a perk of the office. Unpersuaded, Cleveland insisted on moving to a hotel. Only after Dorsheimer, for whom this was confirmation of Cleveland’s “utter disregard of the trappings and glory of the office,” pointed out that Cleveland would be “overwhelmed” by citizens and lobbyists who would take advantage of the easy access his hotel living offered did the governor-elect finally relent.

On the morning of the inauguration, Cleveland was escorted into the Senate Chamber behind a squad of police who drove a wedge through the crowd. Everyone made way for him. At his side was Alonzo Cornell.

Cornell, speaking first, put past issues aside and had only the kindest words for his successor. Like Cleveland, he was a big man with an oversized head and hulking physique. Side by side, the outgoing and incoming governors could have passed for siblings. Cornell wished Cleveland Godspeed and left the stage to him.

Governor Cleveland’s inaugural address impressed everyone, not so much for its content but for his delivery. Cleveland had an extraordinary capacity for total recall of the written word, and had committed his entire speech to memory. Not once did he look at his prepared text. Speaking in a clear and deliberate voice, and enunciating every word with perfect diction, he praised Cornell as a “tried and trusted” public servant and acknowledged that the people of New York had taken a giant leap of faith in electing as governor someone “yet to be tried.” In his inaugural address, all those years of honing his communication skills before Erie County juries came together.

The next day, Cleveland got down to the business of running a great state. As Buffalo’s mayor, he had been venerated for governing on the principle that every citizen had the right to visit him in his office at City Hall and have a chat. Word got out in quick order that Cleveland was bringing the same open-door policy to Albany; it disgusted his lieutenant governor, David Hill, who, along with William Hudson, watched helplessly as a “throng” of citizens wandered the halls of the Executive Chamber seeking out the new governor. The former Brooklyn Eagle reporter had left journalism to join the Cleveland administration as a political aide.

Hill grumbled that it was a waste of energy. “The governor might just as well place his desk on the grass in front of the capitol.” At least, he said, it would have the “advantage of the fresh air.” He told Hudson, “It must be stopped.”

Hudson had to agree. These were tourists or the idly curious who had no business being there.

In due time, Cleveland came to realize that he could not operate effectively without setting limits on access to his office. This, after all, was the state capital, not frontier land in Buffalo.

Daniel Lamont was proving himself to be indispensable, but he found Cleveland a tough boss to work for—obstinate, and almost impossible to dissuade once he had formulated an opinion. Lamont learned that the best way to deal with him was to avoid direct “combat,” and instead maneuver and sometimes deploy harmless trickery to accomplish his objectives. One day, Cleveland was interviewing a politician from Syracuse who was seeking the appointment of superintendent of a vast tract of state-owned property known as the State Salt Reservation. Cleveland took “enormous fancy” to this fellow, who was handsome and engaging and a great communicator. Lamont did some checking with his contacts in Syracuse and concluded that the man in question was an “undesirable citizen . . . not guided by rules of morality.” What that meant was anybody’s guess; nevertheless, Cleveland announced his intention to nominate him.

Lamont was alarmed, worried that the appointment would be a “blunder of great dimensions” that could