POLITICAL NOTES: New Faces in Philly

Philadelphia’s ancient and grimy Re publican political machine has controlled the city for more than seven decades by judiciously keeping it corrupt and con tent. But two years ago, when municipal employees demanded $5,000,000 in wage raises, Philadelphia’s bosses made a fright ful mistake. They passed the buck to a committee of fifteen prominent citizens. Instead of sportingly recommending tax boosts, the committee proposed that the city simply save the money by operating more efficiently. It began investigating municipal affairs to find out how it could be done.

This unprecedented procedure set off a series of scandals which startled even the most resigned of Philadelphians. The head of the amusement-tax division hanged himself. A water-department official slashed his wrists with a razor blade (he had been taking bribes for jamming the mechanism of city meters and handing out free water to those who paid off). One official was cited for impeachment and 16 were indicted by a grand jury.

Old Reliable. The machine clanked to a dismal crawl. But handsome William F. Meade, a 44-year-old ex-ward leader who had mounted to the driver’s seat only three days before the scandals began, seemed almost pleased. A tough, square-jawed Irishman, he had come to the chairmanship of the Republican Central Campaign Committee from the squalid slums of the Tenth Ward (known as the Old Reliable because it never fails to produce a Republican majority). He went to work at 14, climbed up through the machine’s hierarchy by ambition, hustle, a fast smile and a gift for “getting out the vote.” Along the way he quietly decided that the machine needed a great deal of remodeling. The scandals gave him his chance.

With the backing of influential, politically ambitious Inquirer Publisher Walter Annenberg, he set out to work a minor revolution: nominating new men for Philadelphia’s key “row offices”—controller, city treasurer, coroner and register of wills. This meant scuttling an old party wheelhorse, Controller Frank J. Tiemann, who was up for re-election in November. Meade refused to give him the party blessing for the primary. In the process, Meade almost lost one of his strongest political allies, heavy, red-faced Sheriff Austin Meehan. “Frank’s my pal,” cried the sheriff. “He’s in trouble and I’ll go down with him.” But Meade called in the city’s 52 ward leaders; they voted overwhelmingly for the “new faces” and the sheriff finally swung reluctantly into line.

Changed Spots. Then the ward leaders got a surprise in turn—they were not asked to pick the new faces. Meade asked Philadelphia’s bankers, lawyers, doctors and the biggest businessmen in town to help him with his selections, got four candidates of almost unbelievable political purity. The machine found itself running an investment banker and economist for controller, a professor of medicine for coroner, a wealthy meat packer for treasurer, a prominent lawyer for register of wills.

Controller Tiemann and a platoon of enraged party bosses set up an opposition ticket, called themselves the Independent Republican Good Government group. But in last week’s primaries, Meade’s ticket won in a walk. Nobody thought that all of Philadelphia’s old fat cats had changed their spots. But Bill Meade had at least made a start toward proving that a big city machine can give the voters good men and decent government.