THE CONGRESS: Exit Muley

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Along about 1940, North Carolina's Robert Lee ("Muley") Doughton, Congress' oldest member, inaugurated a biennial ritual that Washington hands learned to take as a sign of spring. First comes a spate of rumors that Muley will not run again. Then comes a statement to the press: in response to his friends' demands, he will run after all. The ceremony came off right on schedule a fortnight ago; it was almost time to look for the first forsythia. Then, last week, Muley sadly broke the tradition. He announced that his doctors had ordered him not to risk the strain of another campaign.

In teetotaling Muley Doughton—"what little brains I got, I have to keep sober so I can do my work"—Washington was losing a sturdy landmark. At 88, he is getting deaf (though some say he can hear just fine when he wants to). In the last year or so, he has taken to sleeping in, gets to his office around 8 a.m., three hours later than in the old days. But his 6 ft. 2 in. frame is still as straight as an Indian's and almost as tough as it was in his boyhood on the farm, when he could strike sparks from a rock with his bare feet (according to legend).

The son of a Confederate officer, Doughton was raised in Alleghany County on the edge of the Appalachians. He first went to Congress in 1911 and has served continuously ever since, longer than anyone in the House except Illinois' Adolph Sabath, 85, who began in 1907. Doughton became chairman of the Ways & Means Committee in 1933, and except for the Republican years of 1947-48, has ruled it ever since. He loyally supported the pump-priming experiments of the New Deal, helped pioneer the nation's first social security law, and backed the first reciprocal trade agreements. His basic philosophy on taxes: "Get the most feathers with the fewest squawks from the goose." During his tenure, the feathers added up to $380 billion in tax bills.

Last week, when Muley finished reading his retirement announcement for the television cameras, he turned to the technicians and asked: "Curtains?" Came the reply: "Yes, Mr. Chairman, that's all." Doughton nodded slightly, blinked, brought his hands slowly together like the final curtain of a long, long play, and repeated, half to himself: "Curtains."