The Elephant Show

At the far end of Cleveland's cavernous Public Hall, in the last dark row beneath the overhanging balcony, a lonely Cincinnatian last week called to those seated in front of him: "If it wasn't for you folks, I'd be afraid way out here in the country." Heads turned. A voice came back: "I understand they hunt deer up here between Rows J and K." The answer was cut short by a hammering sound, hollow and staccato, like a hatchet assaulting an orange crate: The 21st Republican National Convention was gaveled to order.

Scene: Cleveland. No deer but any tame elephant would have felt at home that day in Cleveland's auditorium. The audience chattering, the band playing, the smell of fresh pine lumber, were mindful of a circus. Over the delegates, like a cumulus cloud, hung a battery of loudspeakers shrouded in gauze. The voice of a man amplified to unearthliness rumbled through the hall. Chairman Henry Prather Fletcher, a midget in white, stood in a blaze of golden light from batteries of lights above his head. Everywhere cigaret smoke curled through the blue beams of eight great floodlights glaring down from the murk upon the G. O. P.'s quadrennial passion play of politics.

Of the 15,000 seats in the hall, two-thirds were filled. By order of Chairman Fletcher the assembly stood, sang a verse of America. The Rev. Dr. Albert Joseph McCartney (Presbyterian) offered the first of a series of Convention prayers which included Methodist, Jewish and Roman Catholic--all of them indicating clearly that in 1936 God, if not victory, will be found on the side of the Republicans.

Nothing further of importance took place before the reading of the platform and nominating speeches three nights later, except the firing off of three big oratorical guns.

First Gun, Smiling hugely with arms upraised, Senator Frederick Steiwer of Oregon stepped to the rostrum for the Keynote speech. His mouth opened and he discharged, like a blunderbus, in all directions. Once in mid-speech the amplifiers went dead. His booming voice became a faint squeak. His oration went on with gestures, without words. His high point came when he quoted President Roosevelt's 1933 message to Congress: "For three long years the Federal Government has been on the road to bankruptcy. . . . Thus we shall have piled up an accumulated deficit of $5,000,000,000."

Thundered Keynoter Steiwer:

"Instead of an accumulated deficit of $5,000,000,000 in four years, we have [now] a deficit of approximately $11,000,000,000 in three years--but they were three very long years. . . .

"I ask this question: For how long a period has the Federal deficit exceeded that which the President denounced? For three long years! For how long a period has the Federal spending been kept above the $7,000,000,000 line? For three long years! For how long a period has the Chief Executive called upon the Congress to pass a new tax bill increasing the tax burden upon a helpless nation?"

"FOR THREE LONG YEARS!" chorused the convention with him.

"For how long a time have we lived under the evil trinity of increased deficit, increased debt and increased taxes?"

"FOR THREE LONG YEARS!"

To Senator Steiwer went a passing mark for his cannonade but talk of nominating him for Vice President was heard no more. A memorial to him remained, however, in the song sung to the tune of Three Blind Mice with new verses contributed daily by eager Republican poets. Examples:

Three long years! . . .

Full of grief and tears, . . . Roosevelt gave us to understand

If we would lend a helping hand

He'd lead us all to the promised land

For three long years!

. . . when we got to the promised land

We found it nothing but shifting sand,

And he left us stripped like Sally Rand

For three long years!

Second Gun was Permanent Chairman Bertrand Snell, white-haired and white-suited. With the polished self-complacency of old-school oratory he recited the now ironic promises of the Democratic platform of 1932. He spoke under noonday heat to delegates who had spent a night with glass in hand, laboring in committee, or even in the hospital, like John Hamilton, who had had an infected ear lanced. But applause overpowered him after such salvos as "Already the New Deal has cost us the progress and prosperity of a generation!" Better than a passing mark went to Chairman Snell from the Convention. The second cannonade was more effective than the first. The third cannonade was the best of all.

Third Gun. Herbert Hoover, still the Party's titular leader and now, after his public renunciation of Presidential ambitions (TIME, May 25), more popular than at any time since 1928, was welcomed at the Cleveland station by a cheering mob. He was kept in a political goldfish bowl until the hour of his speech. To prevent jealousy, forestall rumors of intrigue, no candidate or candidate's henchman was allowed to see him alone. In his rooms at the Hotel Cleveland he stood all day publicly beaming, greeting and pumping hands. Senator Vandenberg saw the ex-President in the presence of 200 guests. Ex-Senator Moses, Knox leader, had to stand in line to shake the Hoover hand.

When Mr. Hoover stood on the Convention platform to make his farewell address, the demonstration was genuine and joyous. He beamed and waved. After 15 minutes of yelling, shrieking, hooting, he was allowed to begin. With left hand in pocket and chubby right fist bouncing on the rostrum in time with his denunciation, he culminated his six-month attack on the New Deal with a masterly peroration. Excerpts:

"The American people should thank Almighty God for the Constitution and the Supreme Court.

"Fundamental American liberties are at stake. Is the Republican Party ready for the issue? Are you willing to cast your all upon the issue?"

"Yes!" roared the crowd.

"Will you, for expediency's sake, also offer will-o'-the-wisps which beguile the people?"

"No!" roared the crowd.

"Or have you determined to enter in a holy crusade for freedom which shall determine the future and the perpetuity of a nation of free men?"

"Yea!" roared the crowd in ecstasy.

As he marched from the platform, a happy man, the Convention went wild again. The demonstration could not be stopped for half an hour, even when Speaker Snell tried to introduce a little old lady, surprisingly pert for her 77 years, the widow of President Benjamin Harrison.*

Grand Illumination. For 48 hours the outward affairs of the GOP have marched to a crescendo of booming speeches. Its inward affairs have also marched, slowly, unspectacularly. There is no longer any doubt of Landon's nomination, on the first ballot. But until it happens, few have any notion of the crowning fireworks, dramatic as the "Last Days of Pompeii," which are to climax the Republican fireworks on this third evening.

Delegates settle in their seats to hear the reading of the platform, long delayed in committee. It is not exciting. Herman M. Langworthy, Kansas City, Mo. attorney, reads it. Applause comes where applause is due, but with no thunder except for budget balancing. The platform lasts nearly half an hour. Two minutes later it has been approved with a shout and Chairman Snell announces: "Next in order is the nomination of the candidate for President of the United States. The clerk will call the roll of states."

"Alabama!" intones the clerk.

"Alabama passes," comes the answer from the floor.

"Arizona!"

"Arizona yields to Kansas."

Uproar. A band strikes up. For the first time Oh! Susanna, which has been dinned in Cleveland's ears for days, is heard on the floor of the Convention.

Music and confusion go on for the five minutes it takes John Hamilton to reach the rostrum. A sunflower beams on his lapel, a bandage on his chin. His great moment has come. He reads a telegram: "If nominated, I unqualifiedly accept the word and spirit of [the platform] . . . as a matter of private honor and public good faith. . . . However, with that candor which you and the country are entitled to expect of me, I feel compelled before you proceed with the consideration of my name to submit my interpretation of certain planks. . . ." It is Alf Landon's brave codicil to the platform and the Convention roars approval. Then Hamilton speaks:

". . . He who carries the standard of Americanism in the weeks that are to follow must have a clear conception of the problems of those who labor, gained not from a detached theoretical viewpoint but because he has labored; that he must have a realization of the needs of those in distress, not from the information of others received in surroundings of luxury, but from personal contact with those who have been in want; that he shall know the problems of those who cultivate the soil, not through what he has learned from others who ponder these questions in academic halls, but by having lived among them and having heard the story from their own lips. He must know something of the difficulties and intricacies of American business life, not from economists who have never known the necessity of meeting a payroll but from his own experience in business. He needs must realize that the disbursement of public funds is a public trust and not a political revelry, and he is the more apt to have that realization if his own property has not been bestowed upon him but has been gained through his own efforts. . . ."

There is applause after every sentence where Hamilton gives the delegates a chance. This is the stuff they love: tarring Roosevelt with the same brush that gilds Landon. The microphones at last are working perfectly. The audience at last has the subject they want and by far the best speech they have heard. Hamilton speaks six minutes. With his speech still far from finished, he breaks precedent, mentions his candidate by name:

"I give you the name of a Republican Governor of a Republican State--Alfred Mossman Landon of Kansas."

The band explodes with Oh! Susanna. State banners appear everywhere. Fifty ''Win With Landon" signs begin moving. An insane horn from the floor plays Three Long Years. Hamilton paces the platform. After 20 minutes he begs to go on, but it is half an hour before he can. Gulping water at frequent intervals he finishes an effective speech. Again the band strikes up. Confusion again reigns for ten minutes. Then the roll call is resumed:

"Arkansas!"

"Arkansas passes."

''California!"

"California passes."

"Colorado!"

"Colorado passes."

When Idaho, Illinois, Iowa, Maryland, Michigan, New Hampshire have passed, no one can mistake any longer what is happening. Not only is Landon going to be nominated on the first ballot, but no other candidate is even going to be named. In Topeka, Alf Landon listens to the amazing show in his study. Here in Cleveland his 19-year-old daughter Peggy Anne and his father, John Manuel Landon, 79, are electrified.

Chairman Snell announces that seconding speeches will be limited to three minutes: 1) Gaspar Bacon of Massachusetts grows very flowery and is laughed at; 2) Governor Frank D. Fitzgerald of Michigan gives far more glory to Senator Vandenberg for withdrawing than to Alf Landon whom he seconds; 3) Mrs. Corinne Roosevelt also of Connecticut (cousin of Mrs. F. D. Roosevelt and one of her bridesmaids 31 years ago) gets a hand as she shrills that under the New Deal the milk of human kindness now flows only to registered Democrats; 4) Perry Wilbon Howard, Negro boss of the unsavory Republican machine in Mississippi, bellows in a fine deep voice, gets a laugh when he speaks of "the boodget," a bigger laugh when he says that under the New Deal not only white men fear for their lives, but also black men "and even the little peegs''; 5) Henry Depping, a 30-year-old redhead from Missouri, gets rid of a machine-gun-like harangue in favor of youth and Landon.

To the crowd, impatient for a ballot, Chairman Snell announces that the "regular" seconding speeches are over and introduces Senator Vandenberg of Michigan. Delegates who have been able to see Senator Vandenberg seated shoulder to shoulder with his boyhood friend Frank Knox, and Iowa's candidate. Senator Dickinson, only a few seats away, guess the unprecedented event that is coming: the runners-up for the nomination are going to endorse the victor even before he is named. That is just what happens--all the rivals bow out except Senator Borah. He entrained for Washington two hours ago.

At last the roll call begins.

"Alabama, 13 votes for Landon."

The landslide is finally on. Idaho and Illinois get applause for backing Kansas' favorite son. North Dakota, "A typical Prairie State," casts eight votes for Landon. Oklahoma, South Dakota, Texas also vote as "Prairie States," in defiance to Democratic Boss Farley's ill-judged crack at Kansas last month. "Pennsylvania, the birthplace of Alf Landon" casts her 75 votes. Washington votes as "a typical Republican State." Forty-five stales in succession cast every vote for Landon.

The 46th, West Virginia, casts "15 votes for Landon, one for Borah." The delegates seem stunned. They thought the vote would be by acclamation, but Borah Manager Carl Bachmann, a delegate from West Virginia, is irreconcilable. The 47th state, Wisconsin, renews the buzz by voting "six for Landon, 18 for Borah." Wisconsin's Progressive-tinged Republicans are also set on their gesture. After "Puerto Rico, the enchanted Isle casts two votes for Landon." Wisconsin's chairman moves to make the vote unanimous. He is out of order. The tabulators report 19 for Borah, 984 for Landon. Then Wisconsin's motion is permitted. A great American flag is lowered on the stage, a shower of red, white & blue balloons floats down through the beams of the floodlights. The Stars & Stripes Forever, blares the band. Chairman Snell hammers out adjournment. John Hamilton and the new managers of the Republican Party leave to spend the night conferring on the Vice Presidential nominee. But already the show is over. Already the radio announcers are calling:

"Take it away, Topeka!"

* A widowed niece of the first Mrs. Harrison, who died in the White House in 1892, Mary Scott Lord Dimmick married Benjamin Harrison four years later, after his retirement from the Presidency.

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