THE CONVENTION: Introducing… the McGovern Machine

IT was the 36th time that the Democrats met in convention since Andrew Jackson first called the faithful to Baltimore in 1832. But so unusual was the Democratic Convention that nominated George McGovern that it could have been the first one ever held.

Gone were the building blocks of tightly controlled state delegates answerable to political bosses, to old-line party discipline, to organized labor. Gone were the tightlipped, gravel-voiced party barons from the tiers of the New Jersey, New York and Illinois delegations. Gone were the trappings that moved Will Rogers to describe conventions as “the Fourth of July of American politics.” One waited for the pipe organ to sound, for the delegates to pour into the aisles, for state banners held aloft to parade the hall.

There was none of that. There were no ranks of golf bags standing in the hotel lobbies; instead, the tennis courts were crowded from sunup till dusk. The parties were few and saw little determined boozing but a lot of quiet talk in corners and a bit of freeloading by young delegates short of cash. Party leaders sweeping down Collins Avenue in their rented air-conditioned limousines could pass up a sandaled, T-shirted hitchhiker only at their peril; they never knew whether he might be a key delegate. The violent tradition of Chicago was dead; the encampment of protesters in Flamingo Park was quiet, even a bit forlorn.

In the convention arena, there was an air of gentleness despite the heat and pressures of political conflict, an air of almost studied politeness. The uncharacteristic courtesy and discipline, the responsiveness to the chair and the agenda, were succinctly explained by one young McGovern delegate: “We’re not here to hassle, but to nominate.”

As the convention began, a curious air of inevitability hung over Miami Beach like the hot, wet clouds that usually greeted delegates when they ventured outside the air conditioning. McGovern’s astute young organization, working through the spring, had sent him to Miami with an apparently overwhelming delegate total, tantalizingly close to the 1,509 needed for nomination. Everyone knew that the nomination would be decided not in the formal balloting on Wednesday night but on Monday, when the convention assembled to vote on the crucial issue of delegate credentials.

The entire campaign narrowed down to the question of who owned California’s 271 delegates. McGovern had captured all of them in the June 6 primary, according to California’s winner-take-all law. But as the party’s Credentials Committee met in Washington late last month, a stop-McGovern coalition formed, centered around Hubert Humphrey and organized labor; Edmund Muskie’s supporters joined along with George Wallace, Washington’s Senator Henry Jackson, Arkansas’ Wilbur Mills and even New York’s Shirley Chisholm. The “A.B.M. movement,” some of them called it—”Anybody But McGovern.”

In the Credentials Committee, the A.B.M. movement succeeded in nullifying California’s winner-take-all rule, for the moment stripping McGovern of 151 delegates and sending the fight ultimately to the convention floor. There, the matter turned on legal niceties: Should McGovern’s 120 delegates—the proportional share he was entitled to by winning 44% of the primary vote —be permitted to vote when the credentials question came up? And what would constitute a majority on the question—the 1,509 needed to nominate, or the 1,433 that represented a majority after the contested California delegates were subtracted? If McGovern won on California, he had the nomination. If he lost, Humphrey Aide Max Kampelman said hopefully, “he’ll completely lose his momentum. That puts his whole count in question.”

When the puzzle came to the convention floor, the McGovern organization’s performance was a masterpiece of parliamentary infighting. After three days of agonizing over the question with the help of a team of parliamentarians, O’Brien ruled that only a majority of those voting—not 1,509—was necessary to decide credentials disputes.

Before California, a South Carolina challenge came up; the issue was whether nine women should be added to that state’s delegation under the reform rules. Anti-McGovern forces hoped to contrive a final vote falling somewhere between 1,433 and 1,509, the so-called twilight zone. Then the A.B.M. forces could raise a point of order about what constituted a majority on challenges, thereby bringing O’Brien’s ruling to a vote. In that event, all of the 3,016 delegates except those under challenge in South Carolina could vote on the question—making it much more difficult for the McGovern forces to muster the votes they needed. The majority determined by the South Carolina vote would set the rule for California. Said Kampelman: “The twilight zone is us trying to play roulette.”

McGovern’s strategists, led by Campaign Manager Gary Hart, had been prepared for just such a maneuver. The week before, McGovern had met with Hart in Washington to work out the floor strategy. The candidate had issued one vital order: the floor leaders for the fight should not all be youthful members of McGovern’s own staff but battle-tested convention veterans. Among the 23 chosen were Senators Frank Church, Fred Harris, Abraham Ribicoff and Gaylord Nelson, Wisconsin Governor Pat Lucey, South Dakota Lieutenant Governor William Dougherty, and Hart and Frank Mankiewicz.

The floor leaders, each responsible for several states, had a principal deputy in every state delegation. Moreover they were linked by telephone to McGovern’s communications trailer, parked outside the convention hall, and to the candidate’s “boiler room” at the Doral Hotel. McGovern Aide Rick Stearns briefed all the McGovern delegates for two hours before the convention, then spent another two hours instructing his 250 whips—one for every six McGovern delegates. Said Stearns: “We feared procedural chicanery.”

Although ideologically committed to getting more women seated on the South Carolina delegation, the McGovern agents had to be sure the vote was either above or below the twilight zone. As the vote proceeded, Stearns, who was sitting in the trailer outside, warned Hart on the floor that the count looked uncomfortably close. With that, McGovern’s aides began shaving their total, pulling votes away from the women’s position in order to make their challenge lose by a sufficient margin. Humphrey’s forces—and some TV commentators—at first read the tallies as an indication that McGovern was in serious trouble. From the floor, the A.B.M.’s Kampelman phoned back to the candidate’s trailer: “They’re switching their ayes to no. They don’t have a majority of this convention. They’re afraid.”

Only too late did the A.B.M.ers realize what the McGovern team was doing. They scrambled to adjust their votes to hit the twilight zone, but lacked the skill and muscle to bring it off. The women’s South Carolina challenge lost by 1,555.75 (a majority of the delegates to the convention) to 1,429.05. Thus the anti-McGovernites could not raise their point of order; they had won a battle but lost the war. There was now no way to stop McGovern on California. Said Hart: “It was one of those times when politics is really fun. We played South Carolina like a pipe organ.”

Later, Kampelman told TIME’S Neil MacNeil: “We were tempted to juggle the Ohio vote, but it was too risky. South Carolina felt very strongly about it. Governor West felt very strongly. We’d have risked victory on it.” Interestingly, the new politicians were much more pragmatic. Although some women, including New York’s Bella Abzug, objected angrily to the sacrifice of principle involved in the women’s issue, McGovern’s men had no qualms about taking the expedient loss. Shirley MacLaine did her best to argue that surely there was no real choice between adding a few women to the South Carolina delegation and nominating McGovern.

McGovern would probably have won anyway; enough delegates had defected to McGovern to give him a startling margin on California even without the parliamentary maneuvering. When the California debate opened just after midnight. California Co-Chairman Willie Brown Jr. shouted: “Give me back my delegation!” Chants of “Give it back! Give it back!” were answered by cries of “No! No! No!” The brief outburst, one of the convention’s few emotional displays, was hardly nec essary. It was the last gasp of the stop-McGovern forces. In the final tally, 1,618.28 votes favored giving McGovern back all of his 271 California delegates v. 1,238.22 against. With that, George McGovern’s nomination was assured, even though the formal balloting was still two days away.

Vengeance. The McGovern delegates, however, still had unfinished business. At 3 a.m., the convention took up the question of Chicago Mayor Richard Daley’s 59-delegate bloc, which had been challenged by insurgent Chicago Alderman William Singer, 31, for supposed violations of the reform rules. McGovern, knowing how badly he would need Daley’s support to carry Illinois in November, had been pushing for a compromise that would seat both Daley’s and Singer’s delegates with i vote for each. But when Daley rejected that, McGovern’s delegates were free to wield their newly confirmed power and, it may be, have their vengeance for Chicago, 1968. Daley and his slate were excluded—by 1,486.45 to 1,371.55. Daley was too prescient to give anyone the pleasure of seeing him thrown off the floor; he never came to Miami. The unseating of Daley raised again a fundamental question about the democracy of the party’s new guidelines. At what point does the laudable idea of opening the party to women and minorities turn into a rigid and potentially tyrannical quota system? If a delegate slate, even one contrived by an old-line party boss, wins a majority at the primary polls, should it be discarded in favor of a slate that more strictly adheres to prescriptions of race and sex?

After the marathon credentials session, the convention took on an air of inexorability. At noon on Tuesday, “because I can count,” Humphrey withdrew his name from the race. Fighting back tears, comforting his wife Muriel, Humphrey told reporters: “This has been a good fight.” At 61, it was Humphrey’s final farewell. As the 37-year-old mayor of Minneapolis, he had galvanized the 1948 convention with his pleas for civil rights; he had been thought too radical all through the ’50s, lost out to John Kennedy in 1960 and to Richard Nixon in 1968, and lived to find himself rejected as L.B.J.’s contaminated lieutenant in 1972. It was a bitter denouement, and in private Humphrey was uncharacteristically vitriolic about it. Two days later he said: “They said if I won, I’d never get the convention to make it unanimous. Well, they didn’t make McGovern’s nomination unanimous either. Notice that?”

Edmund Muskie also withdrew. “Let us recognize,” he said, “that George McGovern’s candidacy gives a hope for the long-term health and vigor of the Democratic Party and its processes far more significant than temporary difficulties and irritations from sometimes brash new blood.” His leaving was ironic; he had begun 1972 as the front runner in the mind of almost every Democratic politician and political analyst. Although he had been on the point of endorsing McGovern several weeks before, Muskie clung to a stubborn hope. On Monday he tried to call a conference of all the candidates to reach a compromise on the California credentials, but McGovern brushed the idea aside.

With Humphrey and Muskie gone, Washington’s Scoop Jackson doggedly remained in the battle, even though he had not won a primary. Predicting disaster if McGovern got the nomination, Jackson said: “I’m a former chairman of my party, and I don’t recall that we’ve ever been in this situation.”

George Wallace also remained, an unpredictable presence with the new and curious respectability of his near martyrdom. That night as the delegates convened again, Florida’s Governor, Reubin Askew, 43, delivered a feeling keynote address. “It is impossible,” he said, “to look upon this group without feeling that one has seen the face of America. Let us remember that this nation was founded on diversity, that our differences can be a source of strength as well as weakness.”

Flat. In something more than ritual confirmation of that theme, George Wallace was hoisted in his wheelchair onto the stage to present his defiantly divergent opinions on the party platform. He attempted a joke about having attended one too many political rallies this year; when it fell flat, he knew he was not among his “folks,” but the McGovern delegates treated Wallace courteously, as they had been instructed to do and as their leader had promised the Alabaman they would. Only when Wal lace began damning welfare and busing were the few cheers from Florida and other delegations answered with boos. The convention subsided again, greeting even Wallace’s malaprop about “intellectual pseudosnobs” with a bemused silence. Then the convention efficiently voted down every one of Wallace’s minority platform planks —against busing, against a school-prayer amendment, against a plea for capital punishment, against a crackdown on welfare eligibility.

The delegates listened to a parade of pleas for platform planks by homosexuals, advocates of abortion, and welfare organizers. Oklahoma Senator Fred Harris, wearing a button reading TAKE THE RICH OFF WELFARE, argued for radical tax reform—a plank the convention rejected. Hour after hour, the session ground on, with the delegates resisting pleas for adjournment. When they were finished, they had adopted a very liberal, semi-populist platform. The order in which the disputes were handled served party unity and party image: Wallace’s package was considered first, and the more controversial items such as abortion and gay liberation were taken up well after midnight, when most of the nation slept.

The delegates—80% of them were attending their first convention—displayed a perseverance that astonished convention veterans. They paid attention to issues, argued them, voted and moved on. When the session ended at 6:24 a.m., it was the longest in the nation’s convention history.

The delegates’ week was falling into a pattern—interminable night sessions, sleep, afternoons of caucuses. Although Miami Beach is designed for leisure and indolence, it was put to remarkably industrious use. Some delegates plunged into swimming pools and the Fontaine-bleau’s Boom Boom Room, some took in the Eden Roc’s “Love Machine” erotica or listened to Pearl Williams, a road-company Sophie Tucker, at the Place Pigalle. But mostly they talked earnestly among themselves, taking endless notes. They seemed to treat Miami Beach as a curious rococo phenomenon, something beside the point.

In years past, stars like Shirley MacLaine and Mario Thomas would have been coveted decorations at a Mesta-style reception. This year Delegate MacLaine was enmeshed in party reform, and Mario Thomas, Patty Duke and other celebrities worked the long nights at the convention hall. Two McGovern workers, Warren Beatty and Julie Christie, stayed mostly out of sight at McGovern headquarters. The big-party syndrome seemed gone for the most part, a vestige of another kind of politics. Noted Eleanor McGovern’s press secretary, Mary Hoyt: “I looked for invitations and you know, there weren’t any. If there were, what would people think? That we were down here for a party?”

The only hospitality suite in town guarded by armed, uniformed detectives was operated by the Committee for the Re-Election of the President on the sixth floor of the Fontainebleau’s new south wing. There, in three adjoining rooms, the G.O.P. set up an observation post with seven telephone lines, an A.P. ticker, a supply of liquor, hors d’oeuvres, and 18 uniformed “Nixonettes.” Interior Secretary Rogers Morton and Colorado Governor John Love came by to keep tab on the opposition. So did some Democrats, mostly Wallace supporters. After two days of operation, the hired guards changed into more casual clothes, giving the area less of an armed-camp atmosphere.

McGovern remained ensconced in his suite at the Doral, surrounded by his five children, two sons-in-law and two grandsons. Assorted other sisters, a brother-in-law, aunts, nieces and nephews were scattered around the hotel—a total of 24 had assembled for this momentous chapter in the family history. On their first day in Miami Beach, staffers found Eleanor McGovern cooking bacon and eggs for the clan—a task soon taken over by Libby Strauss, a teacher of gourmet cuisine.

Off Stride. McGovern toured the delegation caucuses with other candidates, arguing his case. Before the credentials fight, says Gary Hart, “he was as apprehensive as I’ve ever seen him. It knocked him off his stride.” As McGovern monitored the battle on TV, he sat shoeless and tieless on a couch eating a T-bone steak and ice cream, and occasionally fondling his month-old baby grandson Matthew. At 3 that morning, Eleanor McGovern drove back to the Doral from the convention center; when she got there, she found that the candidate had gone to sleep.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, his nomination assured, McGovern labored over his acceptance speech. He had no shortage of suggestions. Old Kennedy Aides Adam Walinsky, Arthur Schlesinger and Richard Goodwin contributed ideas in lofty, cadenced prose. Campaign Speechwriter Robert Shrum submitted drafts; McGovern rejected all but a few ideas and an occasional phrase, preferring to write the speech himself on lined yellow legal pads—a practice of Richard Nixon’s.

The afternoon before the nomination, some 300 protesters appeared in the lobby of the Doral. They were incensed by a McGovern statement the night before to a group of P.O.W. wives. He had said that he would “retain the military capability in the region—in Thailand and on the seas—to signal and fulfill” his resolve to win the release of the prisoners. It was a curious inconsistency in McGovern’s war position, an apparent apostasy from his vows of complete withdrawal. The protesters angrily called him on it, and McGovern explained that he would close U.S. bases in Thailand and remove all U.S. naval forces from waters adjacent to Southeast Asia once the prisoners were “free and those listed as missing were accounted for.” When they went on to demand that he sign an S.D.S. proposal calling for life imprisonment of police officers who kill members of minority groups, McGovern said evenly: “I’m not going to sign it.”

The presidential balloting Wednesday night had an air of anticlimax. Not all of the Old Politics was gone: as the states were called to declare their votes, delegation chairmen delivered their traditional commercials. Delaware was “the home of corporations, chickens, chemicals and charisma”; California was “the state that began the lettuce boycott”; North Carolina was “the summerland where the sun doth shine.”

Despite an utter lack of suspense, delegates in the hall kept close tallies of the vote, as did Eleanor McGovern, who appeared at the convention center to savor the moment. McGovern stayed at the Doral, tracking the ballots, fiddling with the television dial. “Illinois will put us over,” said Yancey Martin, McGovern’s black director of minorities. It was a small irony that McGovern soared over his required 1,509 with the Illinois delegation that he had rather reluctantly claimed from Richard Daley. In the hall, a brief, almost polite pandemonium broke out and then subsided. McGovern smiled in his hotel room, shook hands with his staff and kissed his relatives, murmuring “Thank you.” He betrayed his emotion only by a small, unmistakable sign: his blue eyes were brighter than usual. Before the vote-changing started, the total for McGovern was 1,728.35. When it was over, the tally for McGovern was 1,864.95; Jackson, a surprising second, had 485.65; Wallace had 377.50; Chisholm, North Carolina’s Terry Sanford, Humphrey, Muskie, Wilbur Mills and Eugene McCarthy trailed behind.

Even before McGovern’s formal anointment, the real suspense was over his choice for a running mate. McGovern himself was in considerable suspense on the matter. His first choice was clearly Edward Kennedy, even though there was some conjecture that McGovern had misgivings about a ticket in which the No. 2 man would be so much more glamorous than the presidential candidate. Kennedy had spent the convention week sailing in his 54-ft. sloop off Hyannisport, repeating insistently that he would refuse any national office. Among his numerous reasons: his family’s concern for his safety, anticipation of highly personal campaign attacks about Chappaquiddick, a hunch that 1972 would not be a Democratic year, and a sure knowledge that the vice presidency would be a dreary, frustrating job. “Within two years,” said a friend, “Vice President Kennedy would be a sad-eyed, overweight drunk.”

Just after Illinois made McGovern’s victory official, Kennedy placed a ritual call of congratulation to McGovern. McGovern offered the second spot, not very insistently, and Kennedy refused, giving boosts to Arkansas’ Wilbur Mills and Boston’s Mayor Kevin White.

Next, McGovern talked to Humphrey. “George put it to me straight,” Humphrey later told TIME’S Hays Gorey. “He didn’t beg me or implore me, but he asked me. I told him just as plainly that I could not and should not.” McGovern went to sleep for the night.

In a series of meetings next day, some 25 new possibilities were suggested, including three blacks and several women. The list was pared to Lawrence O’Brien, Sargent Shriver, Kevin White, Wisconsin Governor Pat Lucey, Connecticut Senator Abraham Ribicoff, Minnesota Senator Walter Mondale and Missouri Senator Tom Eagleton. McGovern was looking for a man who had identification with urban affairs, ability, the stature to assume the presidency, and a national rather than a regional appeal. Catholicism was understood to be helpful, if not vital.

At 12:30 p.m., the nominee put out a feeler to Mondale. The Minnesotan let McGovern know that he wanted to run for re-election to the Senate. Next he called Ribicoff, who also demurred, preferring, at his age, 62, to remain in the Senate. Again McGovern tried, this time telephoning Wisconsin’s Senator Gaylord Nelson; again he was rebuffed. Nelson said that he had promised his wife he would remain in the Senate. During yet another afternoon call, McGovern informed Kennedy that he was still serious about Kevin White, who had already told McGovern he was available. Delighted, the mayor made tentative arrangements to fly to Miami with Kennedy. But rumbles came back from the Massachusetts delegates; many threatened to boycott the convention hall if the choice was White, a Muskie supporter who had fought sharply with the McGovern slate during the primary. White was dropped.

Botched. By 3 p.m. the oddly botched courtship came to an end. “It’s going to be Tom Eagleton,” McGovern told his staff. “Let’s put in a call to him.” Eagleton is a bright, young (42) Border-state Catholic with a strong liberal record and ties to labor (see page 20). This time there was no hitch. Several days before, Eagleton had told anyone who would listen: “I’m ecstatically available.” When McGovern called, he replied: “George, before you change your mind, I accept.”

After the untidy fumbling, McGovern’s acceptance speech that night might have been reassuring to some members of the party—and might have won him some new sympathizers nationally. The trouble was that most of the nation was already fast asleep by the time he spoke. As the delegates met, another long parliamentary struggle broke out over whether the convention should adopt party reform rules immediately or, as McGovern wished, wait until 1974 in order to avoid undue offense to party regulars who would be displaced by a new, expanded Democratic structure. McGovern prevailed.

Prankish. The delegates maintained an appealing independence, even from their nominee. They insisted on nominating eight candidates for Vice President, including not only Eagleton but also Alaska’s Senator Mike Gravel, former Massachusetts Governor Endicott Peabody and Texas State Representative Frances (“Sissy”) Farenthold. By the time the roll call finally began, the delegates were in a prankish mood, casting ballots for TV’s Archie Bunker, Martha Mitchell and CBS-TV’s Roger Mudd. It was, said Mankiewicz, “like the last day of school.” Because the clerk misheard a name, one vote was even recorded temporarily for Mao Tse-tung. Finally, in a grace note that brought the convention to its feet cheering, the Alabama delegation cast all of its 37 votes for Eagleton, explaining that had Wallace been the nominee, he would have wanted the right to select his own running mate and McGovern deserved no less. When Eagleton was at last confirmed, it was 1:40 a.m.

Late in the afternoon, Kennedy flew by private jet to Miami Beach. Arriving on the podium after Eagleton’s speech, Kennedy drew the convention’s first display of unmitigated warmth, a roaring standing ovation. Then, in a powerful speech written by Richard Goodwin, Kennedy delivered an evangelistic plea for unity. He sounded less boyish than he used to, speaking in driving cadences reminiscent of his brothers and somewhat of F.D.R. His rhetoric seemed rotund in comparison to McGovern’s prairie tones. “For there is a new wind rising over the land,” he said. “In it can be heard many things, promises, anguish, hopes for the future, echoes of the past, and our most cherished prayer, America, America, God shed his grace on thee.” In an insistent litany, he invoked the deeds of past Democratic Presidents—Jackson, Wilson, Roosevelt, Kennedy and even Lyndon Johnson.

Then, with a tribute, he brought on George McGovern. For the candidate, it was the end of a long, improbable road, and he savored the moment. “My nomination,” he said, “is all the more precious in that it is a gift of the most open political process in all of our political history. It is the sweet harvest of the work of tens of thousands of tireless volunteers, young and old alike … As Yeats put it, Think where man’s glory most begins and ends/ And say my glory was I had such friends.’ ”

He called for party unity, praising not only Humphrey and Muskie and Chisholm and Mills, Sanford and McCarthy, but also George Wallace—”his votes in the primaries showed clearly the depth of discontent in this country, and his courage in the face of pain and adversity is the mark of a man of boundless will.”

It was Nixon, said McGovern, who would be “the unwitting unifier and the fundamental issue of this campaign.” Then he aligned his themes for November: truth in Government, and above all an end to the war. At the same time, McGovern attempted to calm fears that his defense cuts would disarm the nation. “It is necessary,” he said, “in an age of nuclear power and hostile forces, that we be militarily strong. America must never become a second-rate nation.” He also promised to preserve the “shield of our strength” for “old allies in Europe and elsewhere, including the people of Israel.” It was, among other things, a politic gesture to make, considering the widespread suspicion among Jewish voters that McGovern is “soft on Israel.”

Home. But above all, McGovern went on, national security means money for domestic priorities—schools, health, the cities, the environment, the jobless, for whom the Government would be an employer of last resort. More jobs, he said, would depend primarily upon a reinvigorated private economy. Thus, while promising welfare and tax reform, he sought to reassure business.

His peroration sounded like the making of his campaign slogan, “Come home, America.” Almost rhythmically, he chanted: “From secrecy and deception in high places, come home, America. From a conflict in Indochina which maims our ideals as well as our soldiers, come home, America. From the waste of idle hands to the joy of useful labor, come home, America. From the prejudice of race and sex, come home, America.” It was a melange of Martin Luther King (“We have a dream”) and Robert Kennedy (“to seek a newer world”), with a paraph by Woody Guthrie (“This land is your land, this land is my land”). Above all, it was perhaps as pure an expression as George McGovern has ever given of his particular moralistic sense of the nation.

To TIME’S Hugh Sidey, a veteran watcher of Presidents and candidates, that moralistic sense is vital to understanding George McGovern and the kind of candidate he will be. Reported Sidey: “McGovern may not be a card-carrying Methodist or what could technically be called a Christian, but he believes devoutly in the prescription of the Bible. There shall be no war. Feed the hungry. Minister to the sick. Take from the rich and give to the poor, and most of all gain your own soul by giving it completely. In Miami Beach, it was like St. John the Baptist on Collins Avenue.

“It is a quality that made Bobby Kennedy once say that McGovern was the only decent man in the Senate. It could win him the presidency, and it could destroy McGovern if it ever got out of hand and became a negative force of self-righteous indignation. Sometimes when he talks there is a faint whiff of William Jennings Bryan about him, of standing on the Lord’s side.

“With his call to arms, McGovern will mix some carefully calibrated outrage against Richard Nixon, the Prince of Darkness himself. In its way, Mc-Govern’s campaign will be oldfashioned, searching back to the founding fathers for mottoes with which to face the future. And if it goes as the McGovern strategists believe it will go, the campaign will be a spiritual adventure.”

When McGovern’s speech was over, Humphrey and Muskie, Chisholm, Sanford and Jackson all clasped hands in a tableau of party unity; only Jackson looked, at first, dyspeptically suspicious. As McGovern knew, that array of unity could not conceal the deep fissures that divide the party. Actually, there are two Democratic parties now. One was in the convention hall, relishing its ascension to power. The other, beaten and bitter, was on the sidelines. It was not just Richard Daley, but included scores of Democratic Governors, Senators, Congressmen, state party chairmen, local officeholders—all the regulars unhorsed by the McGovern reforms and outorganized by what is now the McGovern machine. Only 19 of the nation’s 30 Democratic Governors came to Miami Beach, and none played a significant role. As Eagleton noted earlier last week, most of his colleagues have “become paranoid because they think we’re headed for disaster.”

For all their show of solidarity, a certain sourness and apprehension remained among the losing presidential candidates. Said Humphrey: “I think George made a great mistake with Mayor Daley. Dick Daley is a proud man, sensitive. That organizational support out there is essential. George is going to have to reach an agreement with Daley if he is to carry Illinois. It’s going to be difficult to do now.” Then, somewhat wistfully, Humphrey added: “Well, these new people—they’re establishment now. It happens fast. We’ll see how they like it.” Between now and November, McGovern faces the task not only of defeating Richard Nixon but also of keeping together enough of the old Democratic coalition to prevent a ruinous shattering.

At the end of the convention last week, McGovern tried to take the first steps. As is customary, the nominee offered his choice for a new slate of officers for the Democratic National Committee. McGovern wanted Chairman Larry O’Brien to stay on, even though some of the Senator’s staff objected. Strongly believing that the McGovern ticket is doomed this fall, O’Brien refused the offer. In his place, McGovern proposed Mrs. Jean Westwood, a savvy Utah national committeewoman who ran the McGovern citizens’ movement in 17 Western states. McGovern wanted her partly because she is a woman, but also because her ties to regulars, including labor leaders, are excellent.

In the style of the Old Politics, Mrs. Westwood was confirmed without a whisper of dissent. Then McGovern offered his choice for vice chairman: Pierre Salinger. With that, Charles Evers, the black mayor of Fayette, Miss., challenged the nominee, insisting that former New York State Senator Basil Paterson, a black, be named vice chairman. After an awkward moment, Salinger withdrew his name from consideration, and Paterson was elected. It had been George McGovern’s turn to feel the force of the New Politics. The incident may have been a mild caution for the nominee. As James H. Rowe, an old professional from the F.D.R. days, observed: “The old bulls never quit until the young bulls run them out. The old bulls are dead, but don’t forget that the young bulls eventually become old bulls too.”