The Congress: Party Business

Last week in the consideration of the Italian debt settlement Senator James A. Reed turned his oratorical beacon upon a subject that was not directly under debate:

"What this Government needs is a political upheaval to sweep away the dead wood. I do not hesitate to ask my party associates what the Democratic party is here for? To join in these nefarious schemes? To unite with Mellon in all his demands? A few days ago my secretary (Hicklin Yates) defined a Democrat as one who worships at the shrine of Woodrow Wilson and votes with Andrew Mellon. The Republicans at least have a policy—even though it is a buccaneering expedition.

"We Democrats get upon the floor and stick pins in them. We deliver homilies about the President's riding a hobby horse. It is the most innocent thing he ever did—and the most commendable.

"No wonder the people of the country repudiate the Democratic party. We could not even hold the solid South were it not for the race question. We have no more concert of action or continuity of purpose than a lot of chickens in a barnyard when an owl comes along."

Judging from other recent expressions of politicals and observers, there are not a few Democrats who credit Senator Reed with having spoken with the owl's wisdom.

The tax bill is passed; the World Court is entered (so far as Congress is concerned); the Italian debt is settled; the tariff, farm problems, postal rates, reclamation difficulties, senatorial cloture, labor problems in the coal mines and on the railroad have grown cold on the stove for want of a little fire; prohibition fury is bubbling away to nothing in a futile investigation.

What the malcontent Democrats are saying is: This session of Congress from a political standpoint has been a total loss. Where, where under sun or moon or in the dark of night is Democratic leadership? Where is the opposition?

The vacant passages in Democratic ears await in vain even the rumble of a distant drum. The clash and clangor of battle is strangely lacking. Now and again the silence is broken by the popping of a single gun, or a fusillade against the flyscreens of the White House.

And Democratic voices, the voices of Nestors who recall the glorious battles of the golden age of politics, bellow the roster of their captains: "Robinson of Arkansas! Would you be President by sleeping the moon away in the quiet of your barracks? Walsh of Montana! Why are your battle cries so feeble?" And then their cries turn into lamentations which no echo answers.