The Style of the Contenders

WHATEVER strategies they follow, whatever the computers and the charts and the polls tell them, the candidates have to fall back, in the end, on their own instincts of what works with the voter. Speeches are one thing, but style is more crucial--intuitive and indefinable as it is. Each of the current crop of candidates is marked by a political cadence peculiarly his own. Brief profiles of the most notable contenders:

EDMUND MUSKIE. If he has any new approaches to the issues, he is keeping them to himself. He is asking voters to have confidence in him--and confidence he projects. Slightly aloof and uncomfortable in large crowds, he tends to preach a bit. He also has a way of losing his temper, as in New Hampshire recently when a high school student popped him a question that seemed to come straight out of the McGovern camp. But Muskie knows how to mix it up with the folks without losing his dignity. His fondness for puns, funny or not, adds some spice to his speeches. He is nothing if not philosophical. "Sometimes I see seven sides to a question because there are seven sides," he says.

HUBERT HUMPHREY. He is a little slimmer than before, a bit more modishly dressed, and he is trying to shorten his speeches. But basically he is campaigning as he always has--ebulliently, unbowed, as if the heartaches and setbacks of recent years had never occurred. He is reminding the party how much it owes to him --and many of the voters, especially older people, union members and blacks, gladly acknowledge the debt. For Humphrey, it is do or die, a last hurrah at 60 or a gratifying comeback. His organizations in most of the primary states are not very extensive. Humphrey is campaigning on his own political personality, and many would rate him the best campaigner in the business.

HENRY JACKSON. Stolid, square, unexciting but commonsensical, he is trying to appeal to the old-fashioned instincts of the average voter. But this campaign style has the drawback of not sufficiently dramatizing the candidate. Jackson can still walk down a main street in Florida without being recognized; his crowds tend to be attentive but small. When they see a billboard that urges "Vote for Scoop," some Floridians think it is an aerospace project. Hard as he is trying to make hay with the busing issue, Jackson is not succeeding very well because Wallace talks about the subject in a manner more calculated to appeal to the rural South.

GEORGE McGOVERN. He is forthright on the issues of the Viet Nam War, tax reform and income redistribution, but he does not dramatize them very well. He is still the quiet, low-keyed prairie politician who won a Senate seat in South Dakota by hopping out of his car to talk to farmers in the fields. In conversation he can be witty and charming, but on the hustings he turns as dry as last year's cornstalk. Though he is supported by much the same constituency that was captivated by Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy in 1968, he does not arouse the same enthusiasm. His organization has to compensate for what he lacks in personal appeal.

JOHN LINDSAY. No problem with glamour here. That, in fact, is his only hope. There is little in his record to inspire much confidence among voters. But his charisma is beginning to stir up excitement. A good horse, as the pols say, even if a dark one. He is every advance man's dream candidate--sensitive to the shifts in place and mood. He knows when to roll up his shirtsleeves and loosen his tie and when to button up again. Aside from Wallace, he is drawing the biggest crowds in Florida, but . whether they turn out to gawk at him as a celebrity or as a presidential candidate is a matter of debate.

SHIRLEY CHISHOLM. Cheerfully oblivious to the fact that she has no chance whatsoever of winning the nomination, she delivers her appeals on behalf of blacks and women in exuberant, defiant rhetoric. A petite bundle of energy, she is as facile a speaker as Muskie is ponderous. She has no hesitation about bruising the male ego. "I'm looking to no man walking this earth for approval of what I'm doing," she assured one rally. Her husband Conrad is introduced as the "future first gentleman." Such is the intensity of her emotions on the stump that she told an audience that as President she would sometimes be forced to bypass Congress and rule by "executive fiat."

GEORGE WALLACE. Far and away the most colorful candidate, he knows how to communicate with a certain kind of Southern folk. When the feisty little Governor furrows his brow and talks about "welfare loafers," "foreign hottentots," "busing to kingdom come" and candidates "doing the St. Virus's dance," he usually gets the guffaws he seeks. And not just in the South, either. Wallace fancies himself a national candidate with appeal to the population in many Northern states, like Indiana and Wisconsin. His youthful, photogenic wife Cornelia has even given his candidacy a patina of glamour. Nothing fancy 'bout ole George, though. With no special strategy or schedule, he buzzes about in a small aircraft, lighting down wherever the campaign pickings seem to be good.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.