Demagoging is nothing new; Demosthenes was a demagogue himself. But some have been cured; and this is the story of my own cure. I have read Hamlet, and remember where the Dane with the morbid Freudian complex says the players should not "split the ears of the groundlings" which will only pain sensible people or make "the judicious grieve." But in my campaign technique I owe no debt either to Hamlet or to Shakespeare. I reformed myself!

Out in Texas I used to be rated a pretty good stump speaker. I drew fair crowds, really good-sized ones, even when I was a raw recruit. But I was no rose-bud. When the man who is now "the gentleman from Texas" took the stump he was hell-bent for election, roaring down the alley, and the devil take the hindmost. I always ascribed evil motives to my opponents and enemies, and I could see a political sin ten miles off without field glasses. I would call an opponent a rascal and a thief, and ascribe to him all the crimes, misdemeanors and felonies in the judicial catalogue. Word would get around that Maury was going to skin somebody alive. In fact, I would see to it that word got around. The crowds would gather. I would take the hide off. Even in local campaigns the crowds would sometimes number two or three thousand; my good friends of the Citizens' League would stomp, roar and pitch.

I don't do that any more. And yet, I get elected. The thing that converted me, more than anything else, was the Steffler affair. Paul Steffler was my political enemy then, and he is my political enemy now, but by the time I had got through calling him names in a certain city campaign in San Antonio, I got religion, though it was only political religion. Ever since then I have left the demagoguery to others—at least I never start it myself.

Steffler was Street Commissioner in San Antonio. He was running for re-election to that office, and I was a speaker on the other side. I suspected that all was not well with the handling of the city's funds, and after a lot of verbal scalping, my colleagues and I forced an audit of the books. Discrepancies were found, and I was absolutely convinced it was a clear case of thievery. In Steffler's department there was a large sum unaccounted for, or not properly receipted—as much as fifty or seventy-five thousand dollars. It concerned a sewer line. That gave me the irresistible opportunity of crying out that there was indeed a bad odor in the city sewer system. Moreover, I had been reading about the sewer scandals of the Borough of Queens in New York, and I became a ruthless zealot for reform.

I was scheduled to give a speech on the evening of the day when that audit came out. I had no time for more than a cursory study of the facts. But with undiminished zeal, I got up before a large crowd and accused Paul of all manner of crookedness. I harangued about the large apartment house he had built—"with the taxpayers' money." I undertook to prove—and didn't fall far short of it—that he was a rascal and a thief.

The crowd ate it up. But Steffler, backed by a strong political machine, won his election just the same.

About two months after this, my statements began to eat on my conscience. I finally came to the conclusion that the procedure of the city was entirely innocent and that it was merely a case of slipshod books. I realized that out of several million dollars of money expended some fifty thousand dollars had not been properly authenticated. But there was no evidence of felony and no proof of graft. Padding the payrolls and stealing the people's money had not been practiced; in other words, I had made a story which though technically true was really false. It kept eating and eating on me, so finally I went to see the man I had blackened.

I told him that I was very sorry, and I aplogized. Then I learned some things that made me suffer in my turn. He told me that his wife had suffered a great deal over it, and that my attack had done his family injury. I had gone there in a mood of penitence, but I went away more troubled than before. I made up my mind then that I was going to abandon tar-brush methods forever.

I went home and sat myself down in a chair. Then I put myself way over in a corner and argued with myself. I indulged in a severe course of critical self-examination. I called myself a good demagogue and a slanderer. After I had given myself a good bawling out, I let the Maury over in the corner have a chance to defend himself. He had no defence. So then and there I agreed I would indulge in no more demagoguery and nor more accusations unless I was sure of my facts.

My campaign methods changed. And the crowds reacted. After I began to make speeches about the tariff, world trade, the Constitution, throwing in a good ballast of facts, crowds dropped off from a thousand or two, to a hundred or two. Everybody said that there was something the matter with me. But the next time I ran for office, although many of my friends were worried about the small crowds at the meetings, there was nothing wrong with the crowds at the polls, and I got a bigger majority than ever before.

Since that time I have never tried to get big crowds. After I came to Congress I saw Huey Long getting huge audiences all over the country, but I was acquainted with Huey and I knew it didn't mean anything. And long before the national election in 1936 I knew that old Doctor Townsend and Father Coughlin really had no substantial influence with the people because they were merely eccentrics or clowns, and though the people would come out and make a great lot of noise listening to them, this kind of emotionalism was only temporary and as unstable as the crazy panaceas that aroused it.

I have found that you can shock the people with the truth, and they can take it. By this I do not mean to tell a lady voter that her baby is pie-faced, and a nuisance. That is neither good manners nor sensible.

But you can tell them that a certain petition is pie-faced and a nuisance, if you give them a rational explanation. And no politician need be frightened by petitions. You can get a wagon load, and upon investigation you can find that thousands signed without reading, or signed just to get rid of the promoter. "Prominent citizens" often sign petitions to get the worst criminals out of jail, and then write you confidentially not to pay any attention to their signatures. The soundest and most conservative citizen will also sign petitions showing the most crack-pot ideas.

For instance, take the Townsend craze. I got thousands and thousands of letters and petitions. When I went back to Texas for the campaign, I made a simple explanation that the plan was suicidal, and I gave my reasons. I lost no votes. Sometimes big corporations rib their employees and friends to write letters against progressive measures such as the Social Security Act, the TVA and the Holding Company bill. This is what the politicians call "inspired stuff," and I don't swallow it.

If you give reasons to your people, they will generally stand by you, though sometimes they do not. Another thing is that our American wants you to talk in plain language. He has a horror of European "isms"—but TVA is all right, because it works.

Nor does he want to take political medicine in one big dose. He will not gulp down the whole of any philosophy. His idea of independence forbids him following any program blindly, and he wants to do as we do in Congress—"reserve the right to object."

Even on the Constitution you can tell the people the truth. For a hundred and fifty years they have been misled on the subject. But if you hammer hard enough, they will kick over all the propaganda and lies that have been told them by the press which is prostitute, and lawyers that are kept.

I would not have anyone believe, however, that the people don't get off the track once in a while. Neither would I have anyone believe that I live in any rarefied atmosphere, and wholly abstain from being a first-class politician when I can. I am not beyond using sarcasm, ridicule, spectacular language, and sometimes working up a little hate. However, I do try to start out as a gentleman, and never use the rough and tumble stuff until my opponent starts something.

One time, running for Congress, I delivered radio talks on the tariff, which is about the most important subject for Texas; I spoke on our trade relations with Mexico, and kept to the field of economics, with language which had a touch of the University. At the same time my opponent was spending all of his time saying that I was a Communist because I belonged to the American Civil Liberties Union. I then delivered a dissertation on freedom of thought, conscience and religion: but the old communist gag went on.

I finally got tired of it. About that time a friend of mine, a gentleman who had two notches on his gun, came to me and told me quite indignantly that he had been insulted by my opponent. He said this opponent of mine had tried to buy his vote by offering him a bottle of beer at a cock fight on Sunday. the Two-Notch Man was horrified.

So I got up on the stump and said my most worthy opponent was two-faced and double-dealing. "Upon Sunday morning," I said, "with reverend tread and pious mug, diked out in whitewash tie and the habiliments of the elder, he pompously enters the church, and sits on the front row. But, sir, what else does he do? That afternoon, in flashy suit and familiar smile, he swaggers (which, my fellow citizens, is unnatural to him, and all a pose) into where? Where, my fellow citizens? (Pause.) Into a cock fight, held in violation of the law, against the peace and dignity of the mighty state of Texas.

"And then he attempts to purchase the vote of a murderer with a bottle of beer!"

The rest of my language was quite lurid and unrestrained. It cannot be said that this was very lofty campaigning. But enough is enough, and no man who goes into politics can sit on Mount Olympus, talking sweet philosophy, and get elected.

The truth is, what I did was not in malice. Everyone enjoyed it. I won, too.

The last time I ran, in 1936, it was the same old stuff, the same old accusations, the same old lies. But it was worse, being so very old, and so very tiresome. My opponent was a very nice fellow and a schoolmate, named Seeligson. He was a first cousin to John Dos Passos. But he and his co-spielers let themselves in for a lot of talk about the flag being torn down, and more stupidity about the Constitution. I was in no danger of losing, but my friends all wanted me to answer, so I gave them what they wanted.

One night I pictured my opponent as a "Country Club Communist." I said that a country club communist was one that sits on the front porch of the country club, speaks loftily of the common people, gets all the advantages of monopoly and communism, and gives people none. Mr. John Dos Passos, his first cousin, was a bona fide, Red Russian Communist, I said, intent on overthrowing capitalism; but there was a difference between the two: Dos Passos had brains.

Then I accused my opponent of being a political Little Lord Fauntleroy, and while speaking I mixed Faunleroy with Little Boy Blue, and pictured him as one dressed in blue silk, ribbon on knee and frills around his lordly collar. I said he would be a society congressman, flying up to Wilmington in his big aeroplane to be entertained by the Du Ponts.

That night my opponent's camp was in consternation. They decided that he should enter the lists as a demagogue. He did. He got personal in what he thought would be a devastating attack on my ownership of property. He accused me of having paid for my house, while he was so poor that he had not been able to pay for his. He went on to accuse me of living in a brick house.

Thus the issue of the campaign came to be whether Maverick lived in a brick house or not. Some of my supporters were worried. They thought I was in a bad hole—convicted of being rich, for to live in a house of brick, or at least a decent one, is admittedly something of a sin. But I told them General Sam Houston never revealed his plans of battle until the last moment, and that night I would make a spectacular speech, destroying my opponent.

Since I have been a Congressman, I have seen many meetings reported. So I shall tell you the story just as it happened, as a respectable court reporter would tell it. Here goes:

Scene: San Pedro Springs.

Platform properly decorated. Flags. Crowd. Children playing under trees. A microphone.

Mr. Maverick.

"Friends and Fellow Americans. . . . My friends, I have had a serious and grave charge made against me. I am accused of being a communist. That is not all. My opponent says I live in a brick house. (Pause.) So what? (Pause by the people, slight laughter.) Who in this crowd would refuse to live in a brick house? (Stony silence.) He who would not live in a brick house, send his children to school, educate them and have a high standard of living, let him stand up. (Pause by Maverick. No one rises.) Do you agree that I can live in a brick house? All those that agree say aye. (Chorus of loud ayes.)

"All right, my fellow citizens, I shall tell you a great secret. It is one of the secrets that Statesmen must tell their people. The issue is, does Maverick live in a brick house? That is the issue red-blooded Americans want to know. Now I shall let you in on a secret. (Long pause.)

"I do not even live in a brick house! My house is of plaster—and plaster is of dirt, or earth, and from earth we come and to earth we go! (Incredulous laughter, shouts of Aw! as!)

"Now, my fellow Americans, let us go into this matter. My statisticians and my great staff of brain-trusters have made a thorough study. My opponent lives three blocks from my house, much nearer the country club of which he is the revered vice-president, and in which great humanitarian institution I hope he will be appointed president, where he can get his promotion, so that I may return to Congress. (Mock interest shown by the audience.) But my statisticians have told me, fellow citizens, that my opponent has passed my house 7,862 times in the ten years he has lived near me. Every day as he passes my house (aside: for indeed it is a house where a sinner lives, since he aspires for office and he lives in a brick house) (laughter) he looks out. He looks at the plaster. He cranes his neck, like this. (Maverick indicates method.) And when he looks at the plaster, he sees brick, red brick, I presume.

"Now, my fellow citizens, I say to you that a man who has no better eyes than that, or that isn't smart enough to tell plaster from brick, hasn't got sense enough to go to Congress. He might do the same in Congress—(Applause in extenseo, or possibly cum laude.) Now he says he didn't pay for his poor humble peasant cottage. But, my fellow citizens, he paid for that airplane of his (boos for my opponent); he has his ranch paid for; his stocks and bonds (groans) (groans in extenso).

"Yes, my fellow citizens, I am criticised because I have a house which I have paid for. Of course I have paid for it. It is the proper thing to do. Every American should have a house and he should pay for it if he can. I also pay my butcher, my baker, and if I had a candle-stick maker I would pay him also. But I do pay my electric light bill in lieu of my candle-stick makers bill, and the light costs twice as much as it should, and yet, like you, I pay for my electricity. That is the reason that I stand well in this community. I pay my bills. Let any of my countryment among you raise his hand who can say I owe any man a dime." (Marked attention by the audience.) (Extended applause.)

Now, my gentle reader, you may say with good reason, and impeccable logic, that all this is undignified, and quite demagogic. For the sake of modern politics, I am going to argue this out.

As to dignity, I wonder if the rumble-mouth politicians of the past, wooly-hatted and frock-coated, perspiring and redundant, were really any more dignified than those of today. In Congress now, not one percent of its members dress as the politicians of old. Most of them are neat-looking fellows and cannot be distinguished from any other citizen walking down the street. Many still have the mental hangover of old-time politics, but these are on the way out.

For politics is now a cold, fast game to the man who is in it. Members of the old "dignified" school used to make the same speech over and over again; a copy was given the newspapers; it was printed in one paper, and possibly copied by others days and weeks later.

But now the press is more alert and the press associations have a nation-wide coverage. You can make a speech or issue a statement at three in the afternoon; it will be in all the night editions within two or three hours. The very next morning's mail seems to indicate that people sat up during the night writing letters, and went to the post office to catch the last train, to be the first to call you a Fascist, Communist, demagogue or statesman, as it touches their prejudices.

Moreover, the modern politician must work. He is tied to his political lathe, being messenger boy and statesman, letter writer and business respresentative, and a jack-of-all-trades. It takes all of his time, energy and intelligence to keep his head above water.

All of our present-day politicians have a better sense of humor; at least they express it more openly. I can remember the windjamming politicians of old roaring to the clouds about absolutely nothing. As to the direct charge that the kind of speech I made is undignified or silly, my only answer is that there is no excuse in boring the public with long and unnecessary denials simply because your opponent is a bore and makes statements which are not true. It is better to jump on him, and let him do the running.

As for being demagogic—and I am still talking about my Little-Lord-Fauntleroy-does-Maverick-live-in-a-brick-house-speech—my attitude might be so interpreted, but it is not laborious, nor the tedious answer of the professors. The politician of today cannot afford to be a bore, and by the same token he cannot afford to affect the incomprehensible jargon of the professor.

Modern politics demands the man who can think on his feet like a prizefighter, and who can give and take hard punches. The old-timer is as definitely out as the old Shakespearean actor. For the audience is no longer half slave and half Rube, and they will accept neither the old-time actor nor the new-time professor.

Modern American politics, however, have a background thrilling and brave. We have probably read too much of the Lincoln-Douglas debates and the sayings of some of our politicians. But we do not know enough of the real struggles of our own people, so that we may translate all this into a way of living today. Everybody knows that Patrick Henry said "Give me Liberty or give me Death," but few know he went up and down the State of Virginia, saying "He is the greatest patriot who stops the most gullies."

It is better that we go into the gullies and ground and see what we have there.