Mr. Farley Takes a Trip

John Nance Garner was the first top-bracket Democrat to understand that Franklin Roosevelt was not going to anoint and bless any Presidential candidate until the last dragged-out moment before the 1940 convention. Looking over the field, Mr. Garner concluded his chances of anointment were pretty dim; out went his braves to do something about it. By last week they could confidently report back to the Vice President that his complete retirement from public life on Jan. 20, 1941 was a dead cinch, but that with him he might well take Mr. Roosevelt.

Second Democrat to realize that no Presidential blessing would come his way was James Aloysius Farley, Postmaster General and Politician Plenipotentiary to the New Deal (TIME, April 11). Third came last week, when Paul Vories McNutt, Federal Security Administrator, his back a mass of stab wounds from his New Deal friends, hurriedly got leave from his duties to take his case to the country. But Big Jim Farley was already on his way. No one (but Mr. Farley) doubts that he knows, by first name, 10,000 people all over the U. S. Mr. Farley's only doubt is whether the figure shouldn't be 20,000. Every year he travels 75,000 miles, seeing & hearing more people, reading & writing more personal letters than any man in the U. S.

Last week Mr. Farley ended a trip that took him through Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, North Carolina--twelve States in twelve days. He covered 3,524 miles: 2,701 by train, 823 by auto. He entered 57 towns and cities, made 76 appearances and addresses (35 were formal speeches, 41 stop-talks), attended ten State chapter conventions of the National Association of Postmasters, dedicated six new post offices, launched three new postage stamps, * ate publicly six breakfasts, ten luncheons, twelve dinners, two barbecues.

(Twenty-four times the menu included fried chicken and ice cream, ten times potato salad.) He was presented with: a light fedora (to replace a beloved dark hat he left behind in Franklin, Ind. as the train pulled out without waiting for him); an oil painting (rural landscape in early U. S. calendar style) by Postmaster Maurice Goodwin's sister in Indianapolis; a mule-skinner's cane at Mule Day ceremonies in Columbia, Tenn., a women's club pin and philatelic relics of Pony Express days, and an Indian peace pipe, at St. Joseph, Mo.; a book, Federal Government in Kansas City; jars and jars of Texas honey; four boxes of homemade fudge wrapped in red, white & blue by the Pelahatchee, Miss, postmistress. Six Governors (Kentucky's Keen Johnson, Georgia's Eurith D. Rivers, Mississippi's Paul Johnson, Tennessee's Prentice Cooper, Missouri's Lloyd Stark, Indiana's Clifford Townsend), one Governor-elect (Louisiana's Sam Jones) and four Texas ex-Governors (Pat Neff, Dan Moody, William Hobby and Jim Ferguson) greeted him.

At every crossroad the American faces went by, rough-hewn and downy, seamed and corn-silk-smooth; gimlet-eyes, cross-eyes, big blue eyes, dim eyes; mouths wagging, lips smiling. When the train stopped, Mr. Farley said a few words, shook hands with those he could reach: hands bony, calloused, porky, damp, brown, white, black. And the train went on, past the blur of citizens in overalls, store suits, tailormades, in housedresses, straw hats with beaucatcher ribbons.

At Nashville he was greeted by the Tennessean's publisher, cyclonic, pudgy Silliman Evans. In a big, red, open, flag-stuck Buick, they roared off at 60 m.p.h. behind ear-busting police sirens down the Franklin Pike to Mr. Evans' home, a plantation once owned by Andrew Jackson's partner John Overton. There field-hands drew beer in tin cups, sweaty cooks turned roasts over barbecue pits, visitors trampled the fresh young daffodils in the meadow. Mr. Farley spoke, shook hands, praised Cordell Hull, Tennessee, the post office, went indoors to eat a vast spread of fried chicken, ice cream.

Highway patrolmen guarded the pop-bottle-littered lawn all night; at 7:30 a.m., pink and rested, Mr. Farley (who neither smokes nor drinks) nodded at guests drinking bourbon hot toddies, went in to breakfast on grapefruit-and-strawberries, broiled Tennessee ham, hominy grits, scrambled eggs, hot waffles with sorghum, coffee and tiny hot biscuits.

On to Columbia and Mule Day, past the great plantation houses, the slave cabins, the knobby-legged colts and lamb-sprinkled meadows of middle Tennessee; on to St. Louis (750 postmasters and roast lamb) where he went in the wrong door of the Statler Hotel, surprising a letter-carriers' band facing the other way.

On to Jefferson City, where Roman-nosed Governor Lloyd Crow Stark greeted him; to Fulton for a talk at Westminster College, answered questions until midnight, then a 65-mile drive to Macon. Mo. (cold turkey, ham, salad), chatted until 3 a.m. with a dozen politicians.

Up next day at 7:45 a.m. and on to St. Joseph--where in a raw breeze, surrounded by rouged Indian ladies, gum-chewing, feather-bonneted Indian bucks, Mr. Farley launched hoarsely into a lengthy eulogy of the Pony Express.

In Kansas City, lunch and politicians, then waving to crowds at Kansas stops all the way to the cool green shade of Emporia (William Allen White was in New York City), and a banquet on baked ham in a stuffy room with scores of postmasters and their ladies. For the tenth time he heard singers roar God Bless America. As he got on the train, said Big Jim: "Thank God we're getting out of the fried-chicken belt." Next morning Fort Worth and Dallas, where a posse of Garnerites hauled him off to breakfast: Cactus Valley grapefruit, Red River County farm eggs, Blossom Prairie smoked sausage, Garner Camp biscuits, Uvalde honey, Chuck Wagon brew. Here Jim Farley hinted he was willing to be a Vice-Presidential candidate on a Garner ticket (in Tennessee it had been Hull). As he often does, he held a press conference in a barber shop: he is the only man in the U. S. who can talk while a barber shaves his upper lip.

To the Dallas Fair Grounds next, where he spoke to 2,000 cotton ginners. Then off on the straight roads through the miles of green fields, the corn up, redbuds already past their prime, white dogwood lacing the roadside woods, the Texas bluebonnets peeping in blue and cream patches, temperature 94DEG. At Hillsboro, more politicians, cold ham and potato salad, coffee in paper cups; at Marlin, home of old Texas Tom Connally, a speech in praise of Tom; at Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College, biggest combined military, agricultural, petroleum engineering and veterinary school in the U. S. (it furnished more Army officers in World War I than West Point), maneuvers, a showerbath, dinner with ex-Governor Jim Ferguson and 900 other guests (roast Texas steer). Then on 160 miles to Tyler, the East Texas oil fields blazing fountains of burning gas in the hot night; to bed at 1:30 a.m. In Shreveport, La. a holiday crowd of 10,000, and a reception by Governor-elect Sam Jones; to Jackson at midnight, to bed after the usual talks with politicians, the usual three glasses of milk.

At Tuskegee Big Jim placed a wreath on the Booker T. Washington monument (Washington lifting a -veil from the eyes of a startled slave). Then he greeted frail old George Washington Carver, ate fried chicken, reviewed a parade. After Negro Tenor Roland Hayes had made his radio debut in a broadcast from Boston, Mr. Farley compared Booker T. to George Washington, to Robert E. Lee, shook many a black hand, visited the founder's grave, went on to Auburn. Mr. Farley ate chicken once again (he hates it), entrained for Atlanta, with Georgia and North Carolina to go.

Thus Big Jim Farley progressed through the South last week, an Irish Catholic politician striving by main force of good will to break down political prejudice against 1) the Irish, 2) the Catholics, 3) politicians who are frankly politicians. Last week, U. S. observers were certain that if mere good will would do it, Big Jim's nomination and election would be in the bag. The South liked him; the South liked him fine; North, East and West he left behind him faithful and fair-weather friends. But Candidate Farley left a doubt behind too: for when the U. S. voter is alone in the polling booth with his ballot and his God, he must satisfy his conscience that his X marks The Man.

* At St. Joseph, Mo. a stamp commemorating the 80th anniversary of the Pony Express; at Tuskegee, Ala. a stamp honoring Booker T. Washington; at Jefferson, Ga. one honoring Dr. Crawford W. Long (sec p. 73).

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