The Democracy

(See front cover)

One man of Sam Houston's 700 Texan patriots could play a tune on a fife; one could beat a drum. They pooled their resources and sounded like a regimental band as Houston fell upon the Mexican Santa Anna on the bank of the San Jacinto. Texan vengeance for the massacre of the Alamo was satisfied; Texan independence was guaranteed; Sam Houston returned to lay out the city which bears his name, to become President of Texas, U. S. Senator when Texas entered the Union. It was an important battle hymn the fifer played over and over again at San Jacinto. Its lyric:

"Oh, come to the bower, my love, my love;

"Oh, come to the bower I've builded for you."

The song was heard, last week, issuing from the capacious lungs of Jesse Holman Jones, 100 per cent Houstonian, who had dazzled the eyes of the Democratic Party to which he promised wealth unaccustomed and unhoped for, on the sole condition that the 1,089 delegates, together with their alternatives, wives and bosses, should convene at Houston to nominate a candidate for the President of the United States. Capitalist Jones had built the bower. He was ready for his love.

Bower. Houston (pronounced Hews-ton) has waxed prosperous since the U. S. dredged the Buffalo Bayou and brought the Gulf of Mexico 50 miles northward to the city (TIME, Jan. 23); it has not succeeded in changing torrid June weather. Therefore, as the vast auditorium, seating 25,000, rose on the ruins of what had been Houston offices and stores, thoughtful citizens planned how to beguile northern Democrats into thinking the Houston climate ideal. They planned: a suggestion to all delegates that Houston fashions will demand linen suits; automatic water coolers as effective as nine melting tons of ice each day (15 Ibs. per delegate per day); a heat-resisting roof; eight large fans delivering hourly 36,000,000 cubic feet of air into the hall.

Bowers. Comfortably cool in this igloo in the desert, Democrats confidently expected a feast of oratory. Traditionally, the party's sessions have been marked by eloquent appeals to the memory of Thomas Jefferson, Grover Cleveland and Woodrow Wilson. This year the keynote speech of Claude Gernade Bowers, historian and editorial writer for the New York Evening World, was awaited with more than usual interest. Keynoter Bowers had won great and sudden fame at a Jackson Day dinner (TIME, Jan. 23), by a brilliant attack upon the Harding "gang." In an era when oratory rarely moves, he stirred righteous indignation in the bosoms of embattled Democrats. He was expected to eschew political pap, offer a program of progress.

Right and Left Bowers. Houston, greeting its guests, anticipated no Democratic Mellons, Butlers or Hilleses, hazarded no guesses as to who would be the "Big Three" of the convention. Observers who sought to make the difficult distinction between the country's two major parties, allowed themselves to note that the G. 0. P. had arrived at Kansas City with its business organization intact, while the Democrats were faced with the necessity of complete reorganization. They recalled that every presidential campaign leaves the Democrats with a deficit, precluding all activity for the next four years, leaving leadership in the hands of Senators and Congressmen interested in their own reelection. Few party angels are available on demand (Houstonian Jones appeared as an archangel); between elections the national organization collapses completely or in part, depending on the enthusiasm of the national chairman. It was no secret at Houston that West Virginian Clem L. Shaver had little love for the job, little respect from the party.

It was possible, therefore, to divide the more influential of the guests of Financier Jones into two classes: 1) lean, hungry Senators and Representatives from the South and West, leaders in Democratic and near-Democratic states, and 2) jovial, well-fed city bosses from the North and East. The issue between the two groups was sharply drawn, the South v. the Cities, Dry v. Wet, Protestant v. Catholic, the Field v. Candidate Smith. Almost for the first time in party history, the bosses were united on a candidate and promised to stampede the convention.

Bosses. Leading the Brown Derby parade is Tammany's George Washington Olvany, suave, cocoa-drinking successor to Murphy, Croker and Tweed. No tyro in politics, Boss Olvany knows that Tammany is Democracy's unwanted child. Orders have gone out to the lesser Tigers (Ahearns, Sullivans, Hoeys, Flynns, Bradys, McCues, Ryans): no rough stuff, no noise, no liquor parties. Backslapping, in which Olvany does not indulge, actively or passively, is frowned upon. New York's Jimmie Walker, on the wagon, grins at the restless Tigers and quotes the price of corn whiskey.* Boss Olvany lifts his long eyelashes, advises calisthenics, cold showers.

Close behind urbane Olvany marches genial George E. Brennan of Chicago. His cohorts (O'Briens, Mclnerneys, Sullivans, McDonoughs, Quinlans, Whealans) are a legacy from Boss Roger Sullivan. Says Brennan: "The job of boss was a big jackpot. I happened to be the only man around the table who had openers." Once, also, he was the only man present in an emergency when two cars of a moving train had to be uncoupled, a distinction which cost him a leg. Watching him stump cheerily about the hall, coralling his Cook County forces, delegates reserve their sympathy for Oklahoma's Gore, who lost both eyes as a child, one by a playmate's stick, the other by an arrow from a crossbow.

The bossdom of Indiana's Thomas Taggart is of an older vintage. Boss Murphy (New York) and Boss Sullivan (Chicago) were his peers, his companions in arms; Boss Olvany and Boss Brennan are parvenus beside him. Old and ill, his physicians have forbidden him to leave French Lick, Ind., scene of many a gathering of Bosses, to urge the presidential claims of Indiana's spotless banker, Evans Woollen. "He is content to watch the parade from afar, playing croquet with his grandchildren, celebrating his golden wedding anniversary.

His absence did not greatly deplete the ranks of the Bosses. The parade still mustered Wisconsin's white-haired John A. Callahan, energetic Boss who led his 60 henchmen by airplane to Houston's model landing field. Pittsburgh's Joseph Guffey was there, his sharp eyes dominating the Pennsylvania delegation from behind his pince-nez. Boss Frank Hague of Jersey City, fresh from political battles at home, promised victory in his state for the Brown Derby.

Senators. One Boss holds himself sternly aloof from the parade, fixing grim eyes upon what he holds his party's shame. Senator Furnifold McLendel Simmons, a North Carolinian for three-quarters of a century, rallies around him the last remnants of an undying opposition to Brown Derbyism. Serious when a Negro once defeated him for Congress, serious when he organized the "red shirt" campaign to end Negro office-holding, serious in word and thought (he makes no witticisms, repeats no anecdotes), Boss-Senator Simmons was never so serious as last week, when he saw the Brown Derby rampant.

Other Senators, other Southerners were not so resolute. Albert Cabell Ritchie, Maryland's patrician governor struck a heavy blow at the "undying opposition" when he took himself from the race, pledged his support to the Brown Derby. Declared Governor Ritchie humbly: "No consideration of self should stand in the way of the success of the party. . . . The great majority of the party in almost every section of the country are ready to align themselves behind the governor of New York ... in every way fitted by character, leadership and ability . . . fearless, efficient, honest . . . he justifies the people's faith. . . . There are other great Democrats equipped for the presidency, but Governor Smith embodies far and away the best chance to win." Typical of their curious position, wedged between public sentiment at home and private longings for a return to power at Washington, was big Senator Joseph Taylor Robinson, freckled Arkansan, son of a Baptist minister. Two-fisted "Joe" Robinson is to Washington Democrats what Charley Curtis, a close personal friend, is to Republican Senators. "Joe and Charley," as Senate floor leaders respectively of the Democratic and Republican parties, see that the Senate sticks to business. An earnest legislator, Senator Robinson is no less a sportsman, is famed for his duck dinners, for a record bag on the Scottish grouse lands. Anti-Smith fervor emanated from fists which he would characteristically swing right and left among nervous delegates of lesser size. But pro-Smith leanings were suspected in his heart. Could he be both pro and anti? Arkansans remembered that for six weeks he had been both Governor and U. S. Senator. He was ready to mount the seven-foot platform, assume the permanent chairmanship.

* -Corn whiskey, $1.50-$ 3 a pint; Gin, $5-$8 a bottle.