Modern history

Chapter 2

A Bouquet of Californians

Remember that the men who stocked California in the 50’s were physically, and as far as regards certain tough virtues, the pick of the earth … It needs no little golden badge … to mark the native son of the Golden West. Him I love because he is devoid of fear, carries himself like a man, and has a heart as big as his boots.

—Rudyard Kipling

EARL WARREN, running as a nonpartisan and permitted by the anarchic California electoral system to file on both Republican and Democratic tickets, defeated Robert W. Kenny in the 1946 primaries and thus became the first governor in the history of the state to win both party nominations, and the only one except Hiram Johnson ever to win two four-year terms. The general election in November was no more than a formality confirming Warren’s spectacular and unprecedented triumph. Immediately he began to be talked about as an obvious and weighty candidate for the Republican nomination for the presidency in 1948. What manner of man is Warren—how shall we add him up?

Earl Warren is honest, likable, and clean; he will never set the world on fire or even make it smoke; he has the limitations of all Americans of his type with little intellectual background, little genuine depth or coherent political philosophy; a man who has probably never bothered with abstract thought twice in his life; a kindly man, with the best of social instincts, stable, and well balanced; a man splendidly devoted to his handsome wife and six healthy children; not greedy, not a politician of the raucous, grasping kind that has despoiled so much in the United States; a “typical” American in his bluffness, heartiness, healthy apple-pie atmosphere and love for joining things; a man glad to carry a bundle for his missus in the neighborhood supermarket and have an evening out with the boys once in awhile; a man with nothing of a “grand line” and little inner force, to throw out centrifugal or illuminating sparks; a friendly, pleasant, average Californian; no more a statesman in the European sense than Typhoid Mary is Einstein; and a man who, quite possibly and with luck, could make a tolerable president of the United States.

Warren is nowhere near so colorful as Kenny, about whom more hereunder. He is much more sober stuff. He beat Kenny (roughly by 590,000 votes to 520,000) for a variety of cogent reasons. Incidentally—and this represents a striking but not unusual feature of American political life—the two contestants were, and are, good friends; Kenny was Warren’s attorney general and they worked together closely for four years, though Warren is, of course, a Republican, and Kenny a Democrat; Warren was—another point in their close association—Kenny’s predecessor as attorney general. Reasons for Warren’s victory: (a) a good record, which was liberal enough to bring him a substantial liberal vote; (b) at the same time unanimous support by all conservative forces and Republicans; (c) the death of Roosevelt, and the subsequent breakdown of the broad dykes channeling the Roosevelt coalition; (d) a fierce intramural quarrel in the Democratic camp, between leftists and superleftists, which left Kenny bouncing in thin air. He was unable to lead a unified ticket, because of the murderous fight between Will Rogers Jr. and Ellis Patterson for nomination to the senate, a fight so mixed up with splinter leftism that any independent liberal needed a slide rule and a protractor to find where the lines met, interlocked, and parted.

Warren won—another striking point—even though Democratic registration in the state far exceeds Republican. But I have already mentioned the great influx of war migrants that not only added vastly to the electorate; it steadily caused shifts of population within the state, which means that registration doesn’t always mean what it ought to mean. California was for years overwhelmingly Republican. Under Roosevelt it was as overwhelmingly Democratic; FDR carried it all four times he ran. Many times in this book we shall allude to this phenomenon, that in state after state the enormous magnetic, polarizing force of Roosevelt caused a complete political switch around, in 1932, 1936, 1940, and 1944. Meantime we know well what happened in November, 1946. All over the country the midterm elections swept the Democrats and Rooseveltians out, and Republicans like Warren—all breeds and counterbreeds of Republicans—triumphantly in. The Roosevelt era ended; what was left of the New Deal slipped back into history; the post-Roosevelt epoch, with all that it may portend, with all its tentative feelings toward a new equilibrium still to be fixed, began.

Warren was born in Los Angeles in 1891. He worked at every kind of job as a young man, from selling papers to playing the clarinet. His father, a railway mechanic, was murdered some years ago—in a crime that had no political significance but which is another indication that California’s tradition of frontier violence is not so far away. Warren entered political life as a committee clerk in Sacramento after a brief period of law practice, and rose slowly. He was district attorney for Alameda County (which includes Oakland and Berkeley) from 1925 to 1938, and then attorney general of the state. Little is remembered for or against him in those jobs except the Point Lobos case, which is too complex for treatment here. A ship’s engineer was murdered in 1936 on the freighter Point Lobos; three men went to the penitentiary for “conspiracy” to commit this crime, on highly dubious evidence; later they were pardoned. All three were labor leaders whom the conservative community wanted to “get” and the man murdered was a labor spy. Warren, as district attorney, was hotly accused of bias and the case as a whole was called an antilabor frame-up; but there is no evidence that he himself did anything improper.

In 1942 Warren ran for governor; he won largely because California was so fed up with his Democratic predecessor, Culbert Levy Olson. Also, he was running in a nonpresidential year, and hence did not have a Roosevelt ticket to oppose. Technically he stood as a nonpartisan and he won handsomely. By 1944 he was a national figure, and he was offered the Republican vice presidential nomination under Dewey; he turned it down. There were two reasons for this: first, he has no private fortune, and with a large family to support and his children at the most expensive age, he could not afford the office; second, he shrewdly sensed that Roosevelt could not be beaten and that if FDR carried California it would be quite a black eye for Mr. Warren. His caution did not endear him to the Republican hierarchy, and during the campaign he was accused (a) of being too lukewarm to Dewey and (b) too friendly. People said that as a nonpartisan he should not have played politics at all. Meantime, he lost the Republican left too, as a result of some obscure finagling over Willkie. Willkie had wanted to run in the California primaries, and only chose Wisconsin instead (where he was so disastrously beaten) out of consideration for Warren; the Willkieites then claimed that Warren “let Willkie down.”

During his first term Warren was fairminded, conscientious, tolerant, and uninspired. He lifted old age pensions from forty to fifty dollars a month; he tried to push through a compulsory health insurance bill, which the lobbies beat; he set about a program of prison reform; hedging against postwar unemployment, he greatly improved the governmental machinery of the state, and created a Reconstruction and Re-employment Commission that has done admirable work. He played hard for AF of L support (which he now has); hence, he tended as a rule to support everything the AF of L asked for. Finally, he “reduced taxes.” But beware of this cliche. It can be said of a dozen governors in a dozen states that, to their credit, they “reduced taxes.” But to “reduce taxes” is the simplest thing in the world in years when tax receipts, owing to war industry, have been greater than ever before in history; most states have enormous surpluses today, not deficits. The real point is why taxes were not reduced more.

Warren’s dominant note is, to sum up, decency, stability, sincerity, and lack of genuine intellectual distinction. But how many American governors have genuine intellectual distinction?

A Word About Bob Kenny

Robert W. Kenny, whom Warren beat for governor in the 1946 primaries, is one of the most engaging men in America. His effervescent courage and liberalism are both incontestable; he is also an almost too-shrewd politician with caressing eyes upon the future political career of Bob Kenny. If I should be asked what his chief personal quality is, I would answer with some such word as “disarmingness,” in that he is one of the most unconventional men I ever met. No one but Bob Kenny could squat on the ledge of a skyscraper to be photographed watching a parade; no one can play better the role of a San Francisco bon vivant without sacrificing dignity; no one can so brashly defy all political conventions and so debonairly get away with it—almost. This does not mean that Kenny is not serious. He is serious. But also he is an imp. Moreover, he is an imp who weighs two hundred pounds. He greets you, asks you to a cocktail party in his office, becomes a friend, takes you for a week-end drive to Nevada, loves to gamble and is very good at it, and is unquenchably alive with wit and candor all the time. He has friends, intimate friends, in every camp. The first time I met him he was drinking amiably with two companions; one was a Jesuit priest, the other was Harry Bridges.

Kenny’s humor, vivacity, sense of phrase, bright brains, and outrageousnesses are a joy. I asked him once where a certain former governor was living. He replied, “East Oblivion.” He told me of one colleague, “He has a mind like a miller bug—it just skates on the surface.” Once he said of himself, “I was ashamed of being a Republican and afraid of being a Democrat.” After a stupendous lunch that lasted three hours, in a restaurant that wasn’t supposed to serve lunch, I asked him if he could give me some kind of biographical handout. Most politicians deny coyly that they have any such prepared document; Kenny boomed with laughter and said, “Of course—I’m a politician!”

When Mr. Truman visited San Francisco in July, 1945, the newspapers reported a small colloquy:

Truman: “Why don’t you run for governor, Bob?”

Kenny: “I don’t want to run for office. I want to run away from it.”

Truman: “I’ve been doing that all my life, Bob, and look where I am now.”

Kenny: “Yes. and what you have now is a job without a future.”

Kenny, a three-generation Californian, was born in Los Angeles in 1901, but his family is San Franciscan; thus he spans both ends of the state. His grandfather and Bancroft, the historian, were partners; the original Kenny home still stands intact at 1067 Green Street, San Francisco. He has private means; yet he has always been on the side of the underpossessed. (By contrast—and this is the kind of American paradox that causes foreign visitors, bred on dogma, to hold their heads—Warren, though a poor boy who had to struggle for a living, is a conservative.)

Kenny worked all over the lot, though he didn’t have to. He was a banker, lawyer, newspaperman; he was bureau manager for the United Press in Los Angeles for awhile, and once worked briefly for the Chicago Tribune in Paris. He was No. 1 in passing the state civil service examination as a youngster, and at twenty-eight was appointed to a judgeship in Los Angeles (to fill a vacancy—normally i 1 California judges are elected); after serving in both municipal and superior courts he ran for the state senate against a Ham & Eggs candidate, and won by a thundering majority though he spent no money and made no speeches. On his first day in the senate he rocked the state by introducing fifty bills! Then after four years as senator he was elected attorney general. This was in 1942, the year of a Republican clean sweep. He was the only Democrat to get through.

Kenny did not particularly want to run for governor in 1946. He likes being attorney general, he set up a splendid record in the job, and he could probably have been re-elected to the end of time. On finally accepting the nomination, he declared, “I guess I should accept congratulations in about the way that a pregnant woman does. She didn’t want to get in that condition, but as long as she is—”1 Then he slipped over to Europe to see the Nuremberg trials. His explanation: “The first month of a campaign is when things go wrong and all the silly little decisions have to be made…. I’ll be away.”

What beat him when he returned was not his wisecracking or insouciance but Warren’s unassailable popularity and the fact that he himself was pushed into a position where he had to carry water on both shoulders. The Democratic party is a crazy hodgepodge in California; he had to hold the balance on both wings. Also the tidelands issue hurt him. In Chicago in 1944, where he was leader of the California delegation, he backed Truman against Wallace; in 1946, despite this, he got CIO benediction but by trying to satisfy everybody in all camps he alienated what should have been his most solid liberal support. He told me once that his technique was, in general, to try to nail down the right, then cultivate the left. “If you see anybody more extreme than you are, you have to run over there and rub him out—never get caught in the middle of a field with a loose ball.” This sounds very pretty, but it didn’t quite work out. Kenny got caught with two or three loose balls—and was kicked all over the place.

No one, however, should think that his political career is over. He is one of the ablest liberals in California, and still something of a white hope for the entire West.

Mayor of San Francisco

Roger D. Lapham is an attractive white-haired, vigorous man in his early sixties who gets to work at 7 A.M. and who keeps a curious calendar in his office, set each morning, that tells how much longer he will be mayor. The day I saw him it read, “Days Gone—541; Days to Go—920.”

Transportation is a headache in every American city, and in San Francisco more so than usual. Every visitor will observe that there are four different lines of track on Market Street because until 1944 there were two competing streetcar systems. Five times efforts were made to merge the Market Street Railway, privately owned, with the municipal company; each failed when put to public vote, and the lunatic anomaly persisted that San Franciscans paid a 5¢ fare on the municipal railway, 6¢ on the cable cars, and 7¢ on the Market Street system. Shortly after his election to the mayoralty Lapham got busy. One of his techniques was to open the phone book at random early in the morning, and call up a dozen people, saying, “This is Roger Lapham. Will you help me straighten out the transportation tangle?” In the end the merger went through, and San Francisco is on the way to having one fare and a universal transfer.

Lapham is a millionaire shipping magnate; yet he owes his career in part to Harry Bridges. San Francisco is, as everyone knows, one of the strongest labor towns in the country, and during the 30’s it suffered acute and prolonged labor trouble; there was a general strike in 1934, the second general strike in American history, and in November, 1936, the famous “hundred days” strike of the longshoremen tied up the waterfront completely. Lapham organised an Employers’ Council to fight the strike. But his mood and methods were conciliatory. “We had to organize too, to stand on equal terms,” he explains today. Up to December, 1936, he had never taken part in public affairs; then, before eleven thousand people, most of whom were union members, he engaged in debate with Bridges at the Civic Auditorium. Lapham thought that he would be hissed off the stage, but the crowd heard him in perfect order, and the fair-minded speech he made turned him into a public figure. Nowadays when he meets Bridges he is apt to say, “Harry, if it hadn’t been for that debate, I wouldn’t be mayor.”

Lapham is New York born; he went to Harvard, and then entered his uncle’s shipping business; for many years he was president and then chairman of the board of the American-Hawaiian Steamship Company. He first saw San Francisco in 1901, after a voyage around the Cape; he has lived in it and loved it since 1915. In December, 1941, Frances Perkins called him to Washington, asking him to be one of the original members of the War Mediation Board; then he joined the War Labor Board as one of the four employer members and stayed with it eighteen months. In 1943 friends persuaded him to run for mayor of San Francisco. He is a registered Republican (though he voted for FDR in 1932); yet he got the support of the Democratic machine. He won in a walk, and has turned out to be the best mayor the city ever had.

Lapham has several eccentricities; for instance he likes to wear blindingly gaudy neckties and he plays a wonderful game of bridge that bewilders opponents, because he bids without looking at the cards. But details like this do not matter. What does matter is that he is a man of integrity and public spirit who was willing to enter political life and give everything he has to it at a time when most men would be thinking of comfortable retirement. He was born with a gold spoon in his mouth; yet his only interest now is public service. His education is, as it were, beginning; as a friend put it to me, “Roger Lapham learned more in the sixth decade of his life than most people forget in a lifetime.”

Late in 1945 a group of municipal employees threatened to strike in protest at the hiring of a Nisei named Miyama, who had been interned at the Tule Lake Relocation center. Miyama had duly passed a civil service examination, and was properly certified to work. Lapham issued an ultimatum: “This man is going to work here if the whole city walks out tomorrow.” The city did not walk out, and Mr. Miyama got his job.

In midsummer 1946 came a curious episode. Lapham was accused of being “dictatorial” and “negligent,” the last two adjectives that one would normally associate with him, and a group of citizens—pretty much on the outside fringes—got up a petition to demand his recall. The chief motivation was resentment at high taxes and the transportation merger, which had made necessary a raise in local fares. Lapham himself then signed one of the recall petitions demanding his own ouster and asked that all good citizens do likewise, so that the matter could promptly come to public vote. A special election was held, and he won by a comfortable majority.

Glimpse of Bridges

The person Harry Renton Bridges most reminded me of was Jimmy Walker, strange as that may seem. Lean, boyish, alert, with a hawklike humor and a touch of the dapper—also a good solid touch of city streets—Bridges resembles in several respects the former mayor of New York. He is, however, not a playboy. He hasn’t the time. Not only is Bridges president of the International Longshoremen’s and Warehousemen’s Union and head of the California CIO; he was for seven years “the most hounded, searched, spied, snooped, shadowed, and wiretapped man in the whole American labor movement.” This period is now presumably over, and the “Bridges case” concluded. In June, 1945, the Supreme Court invalidated a long-standing order to deport him as an undesirable alien, and in September he became an American, citizen.

Bridges was born of a middle-class family in Australia. At seventeen he ran away to sea. As a merchant sailor he worked all over the world, and in 1920, aboard a schooner, arrived in San Francisco; he has stayed in the United States ever since. He became a longshoreman and organized the longshoremen into what was then an AF of L union; a lively scrapper, he made this quickly into an effective militant force. After the bloody strikes of the 1930’s he worked out a series of agreements with the shipowners—it was at this time that he first met Lapham—which by and large have been respected ever since.

The story of the deportation proceedings is too well known and abstruse for treatment here. The labor haters recognized Bridges as the dominant workers’ leader on the West Coast, and they set out to break him, get rid of him, by fair means or foul. After preliminary skirmishing he was brought to trial in 1939 on the charge that he was (a) an alien and (b) a member of the Communist party and therefore deportable. The evidence of formal Communist affiliation was flimsy; mostly it was based on the testimony of two rivals who hated him. Dean James M. Landis heard the first case and dismissed it. Then, by change in statute, the position was altered so that Bridges would be deportable even if he were not a Communist at the time, if it could be proved that he ever had been a Communist. After four years of the most convoluted legal procedure, Attorney General Biddle ordered that Bridges be deported. This was in 1942. Then came a series of appeals to the federal courts, and after three more years the Supreme Court canceled the deportation order.

Lapham’s attitude on all this was double. What did it matter if Bridges was or wasn’t a Communist, since he took the party line anyway? But why deport him, which would simply mean his martyrization?

Actually Bridges keeps aloof from party politics as such, and is on record (Fortune, February, 1945) as stating that he “wants American free enterprise, American capitalism, to work.” When war came in 1941 he took the line that “there is a difference between the right to strike and the exercise of the right to strike,” and actively sponsored and pushed through a no-strike pledge by all CIO unions on the West Coast. His relations with Lapham’s Employers’ Council grew more cordial; all he asked was that, in return for the no-strike pledge, there should be no union busting. “We won our fight for union security,” he told Fortune, “and there’s no point in fighting when the battle is over.” As a result San Francisco, so often strike paralyzed, went through the whole period of the war without a single labor dispute of consequence. But after the war, as everybody knows, accumulated pressures blew the lid off, and nationwide maritime strikes took place.

In June, 1946, Bridges helped form a national Committee of Maritime Unions embracing six CIO waterfront and seagoing unions, among them the immensely powerful National Maritime Union bossed by Joe Curran of New York, plus one independent. This committee proceeded to call a strike for June 15. At the last minute of the eleventh hour, a settlement was reached by intervention of the federal government. An uneasy truce supervened till September. Then came more and hotter fireworks, when a strike was called by Harry Lundeberg, head of the Sailors’ Union of the Pacific and the Seamen’s International Union, which are AF of L affiliates. Lundeberg, next to Bridges, is the most colorful, aggressive and dramatic of west coast labor leaders. He is a Norwegian by birth and an extremist and direct actionist; he once belonged to a Spanish syndicalist union, and he and Bridges are bitter enemies.2 This situation reached a climax just as these chapters of this book go to press. The AF of L strike was called off after nine days, when a CIO strike was scheduled to begin.

Before this Bridges and Philip Murray, head of the CIO, had had a healthy tiff. Murray announced in July that the CIO territory in California would be split into two administrative units, north and south, with Bridges remaining in charge in the north, but with Los Angeles taken away from him. This of course reflected the growing split in the CIO between right and left wings; even if Bridges is not a Communist, it was a move by Murray to check radical aggressiveness. Bridges’ San Francisco office immediately announced that Bridges had resigned as California regional director. Murray meanwhile stated that his order “did not reflect on Mr. Bridges’ integrity.” A few hours later it was announced that Bridges had not resigned. For a time it was not clear whether the Bridges bailiwick had been cut in half or not, or what were the precise limits of his frontier.

There is no thuggery, no goon squadism, in Bridges’ union. It is no easy thing to run a union honestly, but he manages to do so. It is instructive to watch him in the chair. He welcomes big meetings (whereas a good many unions try to keep attendance at a minimum); he encourages the freest and most acrimonious discussion; everything is decided by open vote, down to the most minor issues; yet he is an absolute dictator who runs the whole thing with the precision of a jeweler fixing a watch.

Outside his office he likes to point proudly to a scroll:

IN APPRECIATION PRESENTED TO THE

INTERNATIONAL LONGSHOREMEN’S AND WAREHOUSEMEN’S UNION

FOR UPHOLDING THE PRINCIPLES OF RIGHTEOUSNESS IN REFUSING TO LOAD SCRAAP [sic] METAL FOR JAPAN IN DECEMBER 1938, AS A PROTEST AGAINST JAPAN’S UNDECLARED AGGRESSIVE WAR IN CHINA.

THE CHINESE PEOPLE OF SAN FRANCISCO

JUNE 8, 1945

Bridges has a pointed wit. Once a rich conservative tried to squirm into his good graces by saying effusively that he read PM. “That reactionary sheet?” was his reply.

Big Wop

Amadeo P. Giannini, a heavy lonely man now aged seventy-six, is chairman of the board of Bank of America, the biggest private bank in California, the United States, and the world. It has more than three million depositors and it blankets California with something like five hundred branches. For a long time it ran nip and tuck with Chase National of New York to be the world’s largest bank, but early in 1946 it passed Chase with total deposits of more than $5,200,000,000.

Giannini is a somewhat rare phenomenon in the United States: a banker from the wrong side of the tracks and proud of it. To people like the Crockers he was an upstart and an outsider; but he beat them at their own game. He was born in San Jose, near San Francisco, and started life as a vegetable peddler; he went into banking after being rebuffed by a small bank he wanted to buy. His was the only bank open (it was known then as Bank of Italy) after the fire-cum-earthquake of 1906; he spread out everywhere by getting the absolute confidence of small depositors and debtors (for instance any person regularly employed may borrow three hundred dollars merely on his signature); he cares very little for money personally, and is not a very rich man by millionaire standards; but he is prouder of his bank than a Neapolitan of Vesuvius.

Giannini—there has been considerable illness in his family—is almost a recluse; he does not even belong to the California Bankers Association. Society does not discriminate against him; it is he who discriminates against society. He belongs to no clubs, not even the Bohemian; the only post he holds is that of a regent at the university, to which he has made large gifts. In December, 1944, a group of local businessmen gave a public dinner to Paul C. Smith, the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle. Giannini came. It was his first public appearance in fifteen years. Some years before he had been ferociously pro-Mussolini, but at the time of the Abyssinian war Smith told him some of the facts of life. Not only was Giannini impressed; he changed the name of his bank from Bank of Italy to Bank of America National Trust and Savings Association.

Giannini’s financial role in the community is of necessity enormous; he helps to finance Hollywood, and he played with Henry Kaiser from the beginning, when all the Anglo-Saxon professionals thought that Kaiser was slightly cracked. As to politics he has only intervened once. This was in the mid 1920’s when he felt that a governor was unfairly blocking his extension into branch banking. He got both angry and busy, and helped elect another governor.

Giannini, whose history is almost inextricably conjoined with that of modern California, snubs his home state every winter by taking a long holiday—in Florida!

States and Governors

What is a state? What is a governor? Again, let me point out that tins book is neither a work of history nor a civics text, but it may be useful to define these terms very briefly. Perhaps the man from Mars doesn’t understand them as well as we do.

The United States is a federal government—“a commonwealth of commonwealths”—but the state is the nucleus of the American political system. For instance the right of a citizen to vote derives not from the federal government but from the state—which is the chief reason residents of the District of Columbia cannot vote. Also, in theory at least, the president of the United States is elected, through the mechanism of the electoral college, not by the “nation” but by the states. Not only in theory. Two American presidents—Benjamin Harrison and Rutherford Hayes—reached the White House even though they received a minority of the popular vote, because arrangement of the figures by state totals gave them the majority required. Each state makes its own constitution, out of its own authority,3 and its own laws, which are, as everybody knows, indescribably various. Above all a state rules its cities; we have the spectacle of a largely rural legislature in Albany having the final decision on New York City’s subway fare.

All this being true the “sovereignty” of the states today is largely artificial; the old doctrine of states’ rights has been pretty well thinned down, and most states—except in atmosphere—are little more than a superior type of county. The tremendous federal bureaucracy of the New Deal; such interstate conceptions as that expressed by the TVA; incessant movements of population from one state to another; “compacts” between states such as those that regulate the harbor and water supply of New York City; federal grants as for highways; the water treaty between western states over the usage of the Colorado River—these and a hundred similar considerations have tended to reduce the practical consequence of state authority.

Of course what are commonly thought of as special characteristics of the states have become confused, and many careers of energetic Americans completely transcend state lines. For instance Professor Kenneth B. Murdock of Harvard said once, “I’ve seen Kentuckians who hated whisky, Virginians who weren’t descended from Pocahontas, Indianans who hadn’t written a novel … spendthrift Yankees, coldblooded Southerners, narrow-minded Westerners.”4 That estimable political philosopher and seer Walter Winchell once pointed out (New York Daily Mirror, February 25, 1946), that Mr. Justice Douglas of the Supreme Court, one of the most useful of all living Americans, was born in a town called Maine in Minnesota, raised in Yakima, Washington, went to school in Walla Walla, Washington, studied and taught at schools in both New York and Connecticut, lives in Maryland, works in Washington, D. C., and is yet a “citizen” of Oregon where he has a ranch.

Nevertheless the states are not to be ignored, as geographical entities or otherwise. Not only are they a convenience in the over-all organization of a book like this; they are still capable of exerting considerable political power, power that is sometimes annoying in the extreme to the federal government. For instance it was found impossible in the spring of 1946 to extend the life of the United States Employment Service, useful as this might well have been. The states (through their congressmen) insisted on a return to the former system of state control. States’ rights may have been thinned down as a doctrine, but they make lively local issues everywhere. Hardly a month passes without vigorous controversy arising on some subject—from tideland oil to the geographic distribution of federal appointments—having to do with the “autonomy” of states and the basic relationship between state and nation.

Almost every European student, visiting America for the first time, asks two questions. First, why is the capital of an American state likely to be so inconspicuous a town? Consider Springfield (as against Chicago), Salem (as against Portland), Frankfort (as against Louisville), Olympia (as against Seattle), Dover (as against Wilmington), and any of a dozen others. Second, why are so few political parties organized on a state basis? None exists, since the death of the Wisconsin Progressives in 1946.

The reason why the early constitution makers chose a small town as capital, usually one near the center of the state, was in most cases double. First, rural fear of the big city vote and urban influence generally. Second, transportation. Before the railways (and automobiles) it was essential that the capital be equally accessible to all. As to political parties on state lines they have never developed seriously because no “Illinois” party set against, say, a “Minnesota” party could possibly get anywhere on the national level. The organization of the union by states grew up, in a way, out of fear that the country would become a real nation. But it has worked out just the other way.

Turn now to the institution of governor. He is, of course, the chief executive of the state, ruling by virtue of a constitution and with his prerogatives checked by a legislature and a judiciary; he is commander-in-chief of the state guard which is his own armed force, so to speak, and which is not subject (except by agreement) to federal commands; in most states he has a veto power; in other words his functions are, in miniature, almost exactly those of the president in Washington. There are, however, some differences. Governors are elected directly, not by an electoral college. And, a strange phenomenon that causes much confusion in state administration, they do not as a rule choose their own cabinets. Take California. Warren and Kenny are of course of different parties; yet they were elected together in 1942 and had to serve and work together. This is as if, while FDR was president, his attorney general—elected independently—should have been John Bricker. The structure of state government is almost farcically haphazard, in that no constitutional office is dependent on any other. Governor, lieutenant governor, attorney general, treasurer, secretary of state, are all elected independently, and the victors may be deadly rivals. Even when they are all of the same party, there may be no slate, no common platform, no embracing unity. Of course every governor does have the power of appointment to certain nonelective offices. Otherwise he couldn’t function. Finally, as is known to everyone, governors are so important because the governorship of a great state is such a familiar steppingstone to the presidency. Consider Cleveland, Wilson, Coolidge, and the two Roosevelts.

Twenty-five of the forty-eight American governors serve four-year terms, twenty-two serve two-year terms. The term of one (New Jersey) is three years. In most states, particularly those in the South, no governor may succeed himself except after the lapse of another term; this, the “eunuch rule,” was written into the early constitutions to prevent a strong governor from building up a permanent machine. In states with two-year terms where the governor may run for re-election, he is apt to start campaigning for a second term the minute he is installed in the first. About all this we shall make mention later.

A peculiar office is that of lieutenant governor. Some few states have abolished this office; because, except to preside over the state senate, the incumbent (particularly if he is of a different party from the governor) has very little to do. As a result an energetic lieutenant governor, in order to get away from the essential triviality of his job, is apt to make a nuisance of himself simply because he wants to do something, and in many states governor and lieutenant governor are rivals and antagonists. Talk about American “rationality”!

Finally, the legislatures. These are, in every state except Nebraska, bicameral; roughly, the pattern of the federal Congress is followed, with a division of authority between senate and assembly. Only five legislatures meet annually (New York, Rhode Island, New Jersey, Massachusetts, South Carolina); sessions of the other 43 are biennial, because there isn’t enough business to justify calling a session every year. Moreover, even the biennial sessions are apt to be pretty brief, which leads to the important point that, with the exception of a few rich men, all state legislators in the United States must have other jobs. They are merchants or farmers or, in large part, lawyers. Making the laws of the state is not their profession. Making money is their profession. Making the laws is what they do in their spare time.5

A basic issue in almost every state legislature—and indeed in the politics at large of almost every state—is the conflict between town and country. The distrust of big cities by rural areas is a factor in American history almost as old as the history itself. The population shifts; but reapportionment of legislative seats does not shift correspondingly. For instance San Francisco and Los Angeles between them, with an overwhelming preponderance of the wealth, intellectual attainment, and political experience of the state, as well as more than half the total population, have only two senators out of forty. The “cow counties” (this, we shall see, happens in many other states besides California) have an altogether unfair preponderance over the towns. Among other things this serves to check political expression by urban labor.

What is the “ideal” California legislator? The most ironic definition I heard came from a member of Warren’s staff: “A man who votes for all appropriations, and against all taxes.”

Line on Lobbies

These exist in every state, exactly as they exist in and around the national government. There is nothing inherently wrong with lobbying in itself; the phenomenon is inevitable in any democracy so varied and diffuse as ours. There is nothing evil in the concept of power, or in the guidance of public and legislative opinion toward a political objective; what may be evil is the evil use of power. Thus there exist, depending on the point of view, “good” and “bad” lobbies. The Political Action Committee will call the National Association of Manufacturers pernicious; and vice versa. The State Department helped build one of the most powerful lobbies in the country to explain the issues behind Dumbarton Oaks and the San Francisco Charter; but no one could claim that this procedure was improper or incorrect. The United States is an enormously diversified nation, and a legitimate lobby can usefully fill a special role, that of representing groups which otherwise have no special representation. A shrewd legislator put it to me this way in Sacramento: “The lobby is the American substitute for the one good thing that distinguished the corporative state. The Farm Bureau and Farmers Union are, for instance, Deputies for Wheat.”

But let us point out promptly that, as operated in practice, lobbying in many legislatures viciously abuses its prerogatives. The “pressure boys” use every kind of weapon to thwart and defeat the public, out of the most grasping kind of greed and selfishness. A point to mention is that, in many states, accredited lobbyists are actually permitted to sit in the senate or assembly hall. They cannot, of course, vote; but they can tell legislators what to vote for. How is a legislator influenced? The days of slipping thousand dollar bills into his pocket are, at least in California, over; direct bribery is considered clumsy, and even dangerous. But suppose a legislator is an insurance man in a county seat, or a lawyer hungering for clients. It will be the easiest thing in the world for the lobbyist of a big corporation to throw business his way—or threaten to withhold it.

California was so abused by the agents of special privilege that, as noted in Chapter I, improper lobbying was made a felony. So today a lobbyist must be registered; he is known as a “certified advocate.” I have mentioned the early days of Southern Pacific. Today, this great railroad plays no direct role in politics and performs no such antics as distinguished it fifty years ago; yet it is a suggestive illustration of its prestige that when Walter Little resigned recently as Speaker—no less—of the California assembly to become legislative representative of the four major railways in the state, people in Sacramento thought that he was coming up in the world! And the railways still wield great—but quite normal and natural—financial power. For instance testimony before the Interstate Commerce Committee of the U.S. Senate in 1941 showed these recent contributions:6

San Francisco Chamber of Commerce

$15,300

Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce

35,625

California State Chamber of Commerce

50,000

Industrial Association of San Francisco

30,175

All Year Club of Southern California

35,250

California Tax Payers Association

53,750

Californians, Inc.

96,000

Let us now pose a naive question. How does a lobbyist or legislative agent or “certified advocate” work vis-à-vis his employers? Simple. Suppose some special interests want to push a dubious measure through. They hire Lobbyist X. Then Lobbyist X, if unscrupulous, may exaggerate-or even invent-opposition to the bill, in order that his own services will seem more valuable. Or, a perfectly innocent measure may come up, supported by some quite legitimate group. But it is feared that it may not pass, so the group advocating it may pay Lobbyist Y a thumping fee when all that was really necessary would be the normal expense of postage, telephoning, and the like. There may be nothing whatever “wrong” with a bill; just the same, a lobbyist (and a lot of them simply love to do things the crooked way) will do his best to make it seem as difficult to pass as possible. The legislature as a whole knows these facts well; in 1946, in fact, an effort was made in California to force a legislative investigation of the whole subject of lobbying, but it was beaten. Seventeen American states, it was pointed out in the debate, require all lobbyists to file a statement of their expenses-and where the money went-at the end of each session; but California does not.

Politics Fill Me with Doubt and Dizziness

We proceed now to examine cursorily some of the special particularities of politics in California, some idiosyncrasies that make it notable. For one thing, though this is true elsewhere too, practically all state jobs are under civil service. There is no such condition as that in some southern states, where even the police are not civil servants, and where a new governor can, if he wants, make a totally new police force out of political appointees. This would be impossible in California. There is no mechanism for building up a state machine through political patronage; precinct captains can't grab off the loot. For another thing, all municipal, county, and particularly judicial jobs are nonpartisan. In Illinois, let us say, judges—and also mayors, county commissioners, sheriffs, and so on-run as Democrats or Republicans. In California, as in several western states, this is forbidden. The mayor of San Francisco happens to be a Republican, privately; the mayor of San Diego happens to be a Democrat. But this plays no role in the campaign; party affiliations are not printed on the general election ballot. Of course, as the thing works out, people in general know the sympathies of candidates, but there is extremely little partisan spirit—about judgeships in particular. This applies, let me repeat, to municipal, county, and judicial offices; it does not apply, as we know, to state offices such as governor. In practice, most judges are Republican, but this is because, by and large, most lawyers are Republican, and judges of course rise out of the lawyer class.

And now another important factor, the open primary. As Bob Kenny once said to an interviewer, “Here we have something political scientists have dreamed of—no bosses, a completely free-wheeling political setup. Politically, we’re about the purest state in the union.” And Harry Bridges told me once, “This is a nonpartisan state, and no kidding!” The institution of the open primary has, in fact, made chaos of normal political procedure. The professional politicians still hold up their hands in horror; they say “the party system has been destroyed.” Anybody can run for office. All it takes is a ten-dollar fee. Hence it is extremely difficult for the professionals to practice infanticide on a budding politician. Moreover candidates for state (or federal) office are—like Warren—apt to run in both party primaries. Anybody accustomed to the politics of Pennsylvania or New Jersey will find his mind reeling if he looks at the California method. Here, chosen quite at random, are some returns in the 1944 primary race for state senator:

Second Senatorial District

Randolph Collier (Dem)

4,290 votes

Randolph Collier (Rep)

3,258

Eleventh Senatorial District

Frank L. Gordon (Rep)

5,292

Frank L. Gordon (Dem)

5,818

Or, just to make it livelier:

Fifteenth Senatorial District

Frank H. Fowles (Rep)

1,343

Thomas McCormack (Rep)

4,137

Frank H. Fowles (Dem)

2,495

Thomas McCormack (Dem)

7,483

A candidate for state or federal office may, in other words, file in both camps and run against himself. If he gets a majority in both primaries, then he is of course the sole nominee in the general election (unless a totally new candidate pops up), and the general election becomes a mere formality. But, a point in qualification, a candidate must get the nomination of his own party to keep in the race; a Democrat cannot qualify as a Republican too, unless he wins the Democratic primary, This sometimes causes mix-ups that would befuddle an atomic physicist. For instance a man named Costello (who incidentally had been a member of the Dies Committee) ran for re-election to Congress from Los Angeles in 1944. The CIO set out to beat him, and did. Costello was, and is, a Democrat. But whereas he lost the Democratic primary, he won the Republican! This meant that he could not run in the general election at all!

This was “explained” to me by a friend in Hollywood, who concluded, “It adds up to the fact that Brer Rabbit could be the next governor of California, or Mike Romanoff.”

Finally, and most important, there is the fact that California (like most western states) has the initiative, the referendum, and the recall. I have before me a pamphlet entitled:

PROPOSED AMENDMENTS

TO CONSTITUTION

PROPOSITIONS AND PROPOSED LAWS

TOGETHER WITH ARGUMENTS

TO BE SUBMITTED TO THE ELECTORS

OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA AT THE

GENERAL ELECTION

The text includes (with neutrally prepared arguments for and against) a series of proposals for new legislation, on which the people vote directly yes or no. Any kind of bill may thus become law in California, by simple vote of the people, if enough petitioners endorse it. If someone got up a petition stating “All Jews in California Are to Be Shot on May First” it could in theory get on the ballot if enough people signed it. In practice it doesn’t work out quite so simply; something like one hundred thousand bona fide names of voters are necessary to make a petition valid, and it must be certified as “not deceptive” by the secretary of state; it takes a good deal of organization to work a petition up, and the cost is estimated at about ten cents a signature. A semieccentric petition that got on the ballot recently asked that a copy of the Bible be put in every schoolroom in the state, and studied daily; it was defeated by 571,000 votes to 439,000.

Consider now the tensions, conflicts, and alliances within the parties. Generally speaking the Republican party in California is run by something called the Cameron-Chandler-Knowland Axis, named for three newspaper publishers—George T. Cameron of the San Francisco Chronicle, Harry Chandler of the Los Angeles Times, and Joseph R. Knowland of the Oakland Tribune. But it would be a gruesome exaggeration to assume that this axis is a solid, single bloc; for instance Cameron took a strong Willkie line, whereas Knowland was hot for Dewey. Governor Warren is the chief present-day axis favorite. But he is closer to Knowland than to Cameron or Chandler. When Warren first ran for governor, it was the Knowland colors he was carrying, and subsequently Warren named his son, Major William F. Knowland, aged thirty-seven, to the Senate when Hiram Johnson died. Sometimes one is asked about the influence in local affairs of another Californian, Herbert Hoover. The answer is politically nil and intellectually considerable.

As to the Democrats the situation is much more complex. Their leader, after a long process of ambushes and annihilations, was for a time Bob Kenny; at present the state chairman is Colonel James Roosevelt, eldest son of the late president, who resigned as chairman of the Hollywood Independent Citizens’ Committee for the Arts, Sciences and Professions to take the job. Until 1932 the Democratic party had many ups and downs in California; then FDR carried the state—partly because he stood for repeal of prohibition, which was a tremendous California issue—and, under his blanket coverage, all sorts of splinter groups emerged. On one side was William Gibbs McAdoo, who, as I heard it put, “was elected senator before he even opened his carpetbag.” On the other was Upton Sinclair who, during the depression, really stood for something. Then arose a would-be redeemer in the person of Culbert L. Olson who in 1939, after a fratricidal struggle in which the McAdoo forces were finally beaten, became the first Democratic governor the state had had in forty years. But Olson’s men were more preoccupied by interparty troubles than anything else, and his record as governor was disappointing; hence, Warren succeeded him in 1943. Olson’s influence has now disappeared. Then entered another actor—Ed Pauley. He is not, and never has been, a boss on the state level; however, as treasurer of the Democratic National Committee he was the channel to Hannegan and national affairs. But—to reiterate the point—there is little state patronage in California, and so Pauley never had much to offer locally. Pauley, until the Ickes quarrel, was in a position to ask for almost anything in Washington; but he had few jobs to bestow in California.7 And local politics in the United States depend absolutely on the power to give jobs. Finally, after 1944, Kenny began to pick up the pieces; his defeat in 1946 opened the field again, and at the moment the Democratic machine is run by an uneasy Jimmy Roosevelt-Will Rogers Jr. coalition. Just before the November, 1946, election Roosevelt got into trouble by announcing that he would vote for Warren, inasmuch as Warren, by winning the Democratic as well as the Republican nomination, was the Democratic candidate (although a Republican), and since he, Roosevelt, could not support either the Communist or prohibitionist who were Warren’s only opponents. For this Roosevelt was soundly denounced by the PAC, his own presumptive partner. Man from Mars, blink!

In Washington, California has some interesting people. The senior senator, Sheridan Downey, has a Ham & Eggs past, but he is a generous and useful citizen. The big-money interests are said to have spent almost a million dollars to defeat him in 1938, but he won, because he represented something paramount and permanent in California affairs, the forces of discontent. Downey did not come up in 1946. The midterm elections might well have unhorsed him, as they unhorsed almost everybody else of his type, not merely in California but—as we know—nearly everywhere in the nation. The Republican clean sweep really did sweep clean in California. Knowland beat Rogers, and bright and educated spirits in the congressional delegation like Jerry Voorhis and George E. Outland lost their jobs. Helen Gahagan Douglas was the only conspicuous New Dealer to survive the holocaust.

Wendell Willkie once told me that the first thing to find out about a state was the size and temper of its middle vote, its independents. For instance in Massachusetts, let us say, about 45 per cent of the vote will always be Republican, and about 40 per cent will always be Democratic; the way the other 15 per cent goes will tell the story. In some states this independent vote is smaller, and lines can be drawn even more acutely. But in California the bulge in the middle is enormous—which is a final reason why it is so unpredictable politically. Only about a third of the people can be counted upon as being certain on either side; the center is almost as wide as either wing, and almost as variable as the wings are fixed.

Who and What Run California?

Having now cursorily inspected men and politics in California, we proceed to look at corollary forces. But this is a convenient point for mentioning first how remarkably the five men I have talked about in this chapter—Warren, Kenny, Lapham, Bridges, Giannini—represent ideas and trends and issues that, time and time again, will crop out in this book implicitly if not explicitly. The topsy-turviness of the American political system and the decline of party politics as such; the importance of personality; the independence of so many voters; the way so very many Americans are self-made; the melting pot and how well it melts; the tendency of some representatives of the propertied class to go into public service; the powerful growth of labor as a political force; the basic and germinal problem that is probably the most important in America, how to reconcile political liberty with economic security—all this is demonstrated even in such a brief account as this of five men picked almost at random.

As to general forces in California, aside from those already named, let us take the conservative side to begin with.

First, agriculture. This is, of course, big business in California, and the most conspicuous pressure group in agriculture is something known as Associated Farmers which is not in fact a farmers’ organization exclusively but a kind of lobby including railroad men, canners, shippers and the like. Its line is reactionary in the extreme. Most observers think that its influence is diminishing. But until recently at least, it played a fairly strong political role in the state, both by campaign contributions to the parties and by attempting to prevent the organization of farm labor. Associated Farmers actively promoted vigilantism, antipicketing drives and so on in the 1930’s, to break the great agrarian strikes—like the lettuce strike near Salinas—then in progress. Hundreds of pages could be written about this; the LaFollette Committee of the U.S. Senate, investigating infringement of civil liberties, took thousands of words of testimony. Carey McWilliams (III Fares the Land, p. 25) says that in one four-year period Associated Farmers got $178,542 in contributions; most were from such corporations as Southern Pacific, Pacific Gas and Electric, and Santa Fe; one packing company alone contributed $74,161.09. Two per cent of California landowners “control one-fourth of the acreage and nearly one-third of the crop value of the state,” so it is not surprising that the big-money farmers are closely interlocked with other business interests. In a somewhat different category, but well worth mention, are the great marketing co-operatives, like the California Fruit Growers Exchange, which invented the Sunkist trademark and which is the biggest enterprise of its kind in the world.

Second, the great corporations, particularly Standard Oil, which can exert influence in several ways. Also in this rubric are the Pacific Gas and Electric Company (the dominant power company in the state), the Spreckels interests in San Diego, the chain stores, various cement, shipping and life insurance companies, the big canneries, Giannini’s Bank of America, and of course the railroads.

Third, the Merchants and Manufacturers Association, which is the California equivalent of the NAM. It is of course a force strongly on the conservative side, but whether or not it affects a great number of actual votes is doubtful. It may, however, influence politics by putting up candidates, and by attempts to get antilabor bills on the ballot; it is violently antiunion. In general, M & M works closely with Associated Farmers. Its president is a former president of Southern Pacific, and its bailiwick is Los Angeles. Some small businessmen, who claim that they don’t like M & M, may nevertheless be persuaded into becoming members; or a small contractor may join up, even if he disapproves, because membership may help throw business his way. This is the country where contacts equal contracts.

Fourth, the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce; and never should it be forgotten that Los Angeles County possesses about 40 per cent of the wealth of California, and 42 per cent of the vote. It is, like most chambers of commerce in the United States, very conservative except in booster statistics. The Los Angeles Chamber should be carefully differentiated from the state Chamber of Commerce, which is much more liberal.

Fifth, the American Legion, which maintains a powerful lobby in California. It is usually a factor behind the bogus “red scares”;8 it took the lead in agitation against the dispossessed Japanese.

Sixth, real estate interests generally. These are particularly important because so many Californians move about constantly.

Turn now to liberal forces. The chief among them is of course labor. Just as the CIO is apt to say indignantly that Associated Farmers and the M & M “run the state,” so the Associated Farmers and the M & M say indignantly that “labor runs the state.” Both are wrong; neither side comes anywhere near to running California exclusively. But certainly labor has been a sharply rising influence. The AF of L has about a million members; it is in the main strongly anti-Communist; it works fairly well with the CIO when both have a common political aim, for instance the recent defeat of Proposition Number 12 which threatened to prohibit the closed shop in the state. This measure was introduced and sponsored by the M & M. Yet, interestingly enough, among the organizations which lined up with the AF of L and the CIO against it were the California, San Francisco, and Sacramento (but not Los Angeles) chambers of commerce, the city councils of San Diego and Richmond, the Los Angeles Church Federation, and the California Farm Bureau. Presumably all these organizations were willing to concede that the days of the open shop were no more, at least in California as of that time.

The AF of L is strongest in the building trades, and among nurses, teachers, clerks, and culinary workers; the main CIO strength is in aircraft and on the waterfront. The CIO, with a much smaller membership, is divided more or less down the middle, between those who would like to kick the Communists out, but don’t dare, and those who are apt to say, “Oh well, let them stay!” The state CIO leader is, as everyone knows, the redoubtable Bridges, but as we know his position has not been too secure lately; the Communists are real specimens, not Dies Committee ghosts or red herrings. The Political Action Committee of the CIO has had great strength in California; it did a spectacular job in the 1944 elections as a kind of twentieth century Tammany Hall, turning out the vote; one of its chief foci of power has been Hollywood. Whether its massive defeat in 1946 represents a permanent or only a temporary setback is something that, at the moment, no man can easily know.

Another word on labor. It should, of course, always be kept in mind that California has a savagely brutal tradition of antilabor extremism and conspiracy. Next to the Sacco-Vanzetti case, what are probably the two greatest causes célèbres in American labor history are Californian, the dynamiting of the Los Angeles Times and the consequent trial of the McNamaras in 1911, and the Mooney frame-up in San Francisco in 1916.

Second—among forces more or less liberal—is the immense bloc of old folks, the “senior citizens” and radically inclined pensionnaires. These I discuss in the chapter following.

Among forces mixed up in themselves and hence more difficult to classify are Hollywood (also to be discussed later), the splendid civil service, the liquor interests, which play a role in the politics of almost every American state, and the schoolteachers. These latter and their “education lobby” are also factors almost everywhere in America; time and time again we shall mention them. The pattern is the same all over the country, and the objective highly commendable—to get more money for the schools. But this means higher taxes, and so business interests as a rule, which want taxes down, fight the education people as much as they dare.

As to newspapers—still another nonhomogeneous force that we shall find in every state—they are a mixed bag in California. The Los Angeles Times, bitterly anti-New Deal and antilabor, is a heavy standpat force; the Los Angeles News, edited by Manchester Boddy, is eloquent and liberal, but it seems to be more an anthology of columns than a newspaper. The other two Los Angeles papers belong to Hearst. The best paper in the state, by far, is the Chronicle of San Francisco, which has a wonderfully picturesque history and which under George T. Cameron and Paul C. Smith, one of the most brilliant editors in the United States, maintains its tradition vigorously.

That preposterous old aurochs, Hearst, is of course a Californian, and the San Francisco Examiner is the “home” paper of the whole Hearst herd, but the old man himself has little specifically California influence nowadays. Only seldom does he promote individual candidates of his own—though his papers have warmly supported Warren; rather, he tries to knock off opponents by shouting “Red.” Nevertheless, late in 1946, he sent a telegram to all Hearst editors in the country, urging “support of the whole Republican ticket during the last days of the campaign,” under the slogan, “Vote against New Deal Communism, Vote Republican, Vote American.” Hearst still lives like a shogun, a nabob, from an antique world. To describe his adventures in national politics would take a chapter.

Finally, consider federal pay rolls and federal credit, a factor of extreme importance in the immediate postwar period. There are, for instance, more federal job holders in California (313,400) than in any other state (even New York), and, incredible as the fact may seem, more than in Washington, D.C. The great airplane companies in the Los Angeles area could not, during the war, have ever met their bills if the U.S. Army, i.e. the federal government, had not been purchasing their airplanes; and of course the plants themselves could not have been expanded to their war capacity without federal help.

Also—to conclude—there are some remarkable and distinctively Californian minor lobbies. The chiropractors have one, so do the osteopaths, and so does a celebrated Los Angeles cemetery.

1 Time, March 18, 1946.

2 Cf. Victor Riesel in the New York Post, September 6, 1946.

3 But Congress can influence the kind of constitution a state may adopt. For instance Utah was not admitted to the union until it promised to abolish polygamy.

4 In a speech before the New England Society of Cleveland and the Western Reserve, 1928.

5 Some occupations of California assemblymen are funeral director, “rancher and machinery,” industrial relations director, production engineer, real estate, accountant, jobber, teacher, machinist, insurance broker, master mechanic, tax statistician, service station operator, retired railway conductor, painter, trucking contractor, editor, cattleman, poultry dealer, pharmacist, labor leader, “land and water development,” advertising executive, and law student. Of the forty senators thirteen are lawyers.

6 As quoted by PAl, March 22, 1946.

7 But of course the oil companies and oil men often play politics. See testimony before the Senate Naval Affairs Committee in February,. 1946.

8 Upton Sinclair was once arrested while reading the Declaration of Independence aloud in public, during the worst days of Los Angeles red hunting.

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