The Speaker Speaks His Mind MAN OF THE HOUSE

By WALTER ISAACSON

Some political memoirs provide detailed inside accounts of major events, usually in ways that defend the author's historic role and wisdom. Others are more philosophical, reflecting on the lessons of a lifetime's dalliance with history. And then there are those that are amiable siftings through memory's scrapbook, in which the author recounts tales about people and places as if he were holding court over a few beers.

In Man of the House, Tip O'Neill takes the last approach, figuratively pulling up a chair at Barry's Corner, his old hangout in Cambridge, Mass., and regaling the reader with a string of let-me-tell-you-about-the-time anecdotes. Already some of the book's barbed comments have provoked a flurry of attention and virtually guaranteed that it will be a commercial success. But the book is more than just a settling of old scores. It adds up to a stout defense of two now tarnished notions that O'Neill came to epitomize: the New Deal liberal ideal that government's duty is to look out for the little guy, and the virtue of old-fashioned back-room politics.

O'Neill nurtured those values and that style from his first campaign for the Cambridge City Council in 1934 until his retirement as Speaker of the House 52 years later. He had two favorite maxims: "All politics is local," and the main issue for Democrats must always be "work and wages." By sticking to those guns, he became the living embodiment of the Democratic Congress and, even to many of his foes, a lovable crusader for populist and compassionate values.

O'Neill's world was one where loyalty to friends and constituent needs was paramount. Of James Michael Curley, whose tolerance of bribery led to his serving as Boston's mayor from a prison cell, O'Neill proclaims, "Whatever you could say about his methods, his heart was always in the right place. One winter he called up Filene's, a major department store, and said to the owner, 'I need 5,000 sweaters this afternoon. And by the way, it's time to reassess your property.' Curley got the sweaters, which went to the poor people of Boston."

O'Neill expresses grudging admiration for old Joe Kennedy, whom he describes handing out cash-filled briefcases to politicians who would do his bidding and keeping a careful watch on the progress of his sons. "The old man even had a maid in Jack's Washington house who reported to him," O'Neill says. President Kennedy is portrayed as the kindliest member of that clan, willing to meet with a friend of O'Neill's who wanted to bid on a large construction job overseas even though the man had not been an early Kennedy supporter. But Robert Kennedy is depicted as ungracious and ruthless. "To me, he was a self- important upstart and a know-it-all. To him, I was simply a street-corner pol."

Richard Nixon is called to account not only for Watergate but also for being a bad poker player: "Any guy who hollers over a $40 pot has no business being President." Nixon is portrayed, above all, as a man of unhinged crudity. O'Neill tells of sitting with Congressman Peter Rodino during the impeachment hearings and listening to a White House tape that enraged the Judiciary Committee chairman. Writes O'Neill: "The President was talking to John Ehrlichman about the Italians. 'They're not like us,' said Nixon. 'They smell different, they look different, they act different. The trouble is, you can't find one that's honest.' " O'Neill reports that Rodino, determined that his committee consider Nixon's case strictly on its merits, arranged to keep the tape from being made public. (Rodino confirms the story.)

The President who baffled him most was Reagan. It began with their first official meeting, a courtesy call on the Speaker by the President-elect. When Reagan commented on O'Neill's huge oak desk, the Speaker said it had once belonged to Grover Cleveland. Replied Reagan: "You know, I once played Grover Cleveland in the movies." O'Neill had to correct him: "No, Mr. President. You're thinking of Grover Cleveland Alexander, the ball player." Reagan's tendency to see every problem in the most limited personal terms infuriated O'Neill. In arguing against some Social Security cuts, O'Neill described the plight of a girl who would be losing her college benefits. Reagan called in an aide and said, "Let's see if we can take care of this girl." O'Neill jumped in. "I'm not here to talk about one girl. I'm using her as an example." Writes O'Neill: "I still don't think he understands the point."

All of this makes for easygoing reading, indeed a bit too easygoing. Many of O'Neill's rambling recollections would carry more weight if they contained a few firmer facts. And for all its street-corner savvy, the book is short on lasting wisdom about ways to cure Congress's chronic inability to pursue O'Neill's ideals without lapsing into fiscal irresponsibility. Yet by | capturing the inside feel of the political rough-and-tumble, O'Neill has succeeded in conveying the excitement of a career based on an abiding faith in what Government can accomplish.