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<text> <title> (72 Elect) George McGovern Finally Finds a Veep </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1972 Election </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> August 14, 1972 THE CAMPAIGN George McGovern Finally Finds a Veep </hdr> <body> "Too high, Eunie baby," Sargent Shriver shouted as Eunice smashed a drive out of bounds. Surprisingly trim at 56, Shriver was engaged with his wife Eunice in a spirited, Kennedyesque Saturday-morning doubles match at their home in Hyannis Port on Cape Cod. A houseboy brought news that Senator George McGovern was on the phone. Without pausing, Shriver served, played out the point, finally stroking a shot weakly into the net. Only then did he casually walk off the court to take the call. Thus did Democratic Presidential Candidate George McGovern finally land a vice-presidential running mate, climaxing one of the most bizarre weeks in American political history. It was a week in which the convention-approved nominee, Missouri Senator Thomas Eagleton, was pressured off the ticket and five respected figures in the Democratic Party turned down McGovern's desperate pleas to fill the vacancy. Even for the Democrats, noted for their internecine squabbles and disorderly manners, the spectacle was one of a party reduced to near shambles just as it started its overwhelmingly difficult campaign to reach the White House. The dropping of Eagleton because of the uproar over his medical history was virtually unprecedented. [One other vice- presidential candidate, former Senator Albert Gallatin, was nominated in 1824, then forced off the Democratic-Republican ticket by Party Leader Martin Van Buren, who was trying to strengthen the ticket. Two men have refused to run after being nominated: Senator Silas Wright in 1844 and former Illinois Governor Frank Lowden in 1924.] The rebuffs encountered by McGovern as he sought a reassuring replacement only added to the party humiliation. McGovern wooed them and practically begged, but one by one, Edward Kennedy, Abraham Ribicoff, Hubert Humphrey, Reubin Askew and Edmund Muskie all declined for various reasons their party's second highest honor. The selection of Shriver, a personable Kennedy in-law and former head of the Peace Corps and Office of Economic Opportunity may turn out to be a good choice, but had the public aura of an act of desperation. Typhoid. While the impact of the week's events made McGovern appear to be indecisive and ineffective, as well as a political Typhoid Mary, he was largely trapped by events beyond his control. He knew just which men he wanted and in what order of priority. He simply could not persuade them to run. Moreover, every act in the drama was played out in full view, each pursuit of a candidate, each offer and each rejection making instant headlines. It produced a confused jumble of bulletins, giving the public the head-snapping twists of a Ping Pong match. Most damaging in all of the rejections was an implication that none of the selected men dared mention: the fear that they would be joining a losing ticket. The decision to drop Eagleton raised deep questions about McGovern's leadership abilities. Yet the dilemma was a profound one in which the poignant personal considerations of both men collided with the brutal demand that public and party welfare come first. There was no way for McGovern to look good. His critics could contend that he put expediency above the anti- professional political idealism that his candidacy had seemed to espouse. Arguments will undoubtedly continue over whether his stature would have grown or diminished if he had never wavered in his support of Eagleton, fought out the health issue on purely medical grounds. His admirers and most professional politicians will argue that abandoning Eagleton was something he simply had to do if he was to stand any chance of getting the campaign focused on its real target, Richard Nixon. The worst thing about McGovern's performance was not that he was compelled to drop Eagleton, but that he at first rushed into "1,000%" support for him, only to waver toward a somewhat devious tactic of undercutting the man. In the end, McGovern proved coldly tough. As they moved into the fateful week, both McGovern and Eagleton respected each other's position. Showing courage and a manly grace under pressure, Eagleton felt he had ridden out the storm and emerged with a broad new following. He was especially effective on a Sunday "Face the Nation" TV appearance. McGovern wanted to keep him, but feared that the controversy would not subside so long as Eagleton was on the ticket. On another Sunday-interview show, "Meet the Press," two of the party's top officials, National Committee Chairman Jean Westwood and Vice Chairman Basil A. Paterson, urged him to step down. Since Mrs. Westwood had talked to McGovern before her appearance, her words were a sign that McGovern might have made up his mind. Yet, as one aide explained it, McGovern was "very troubled by the conflicting emotional pulls. There was a terrible ambiguity between his private desires [keeping Eagleton] and the public requirements [dumping him]." If those ambiguities had already been resolved, the public execution was still to come. So was the pursuit of someone else to fill out the ticket. The travail of the Democratic Party developed this way day by day: MONDAY. Michigan Senator Phil Hart found no ambiguity at all in what McGovern intended to do. As a group of Senators flew to the funeral of Louisiana Senator Allen Ellender, McGovern, sitting beside Hart, said flatly: "I've concluded that it is necessary to find a substitute." Hart readily agreed. Hart was struck by McGovern's controlled approach to the problem. "He seemed totally at ease. No bitterness, no anger. He seemed remarkably stable." McGovern laughed heartily when his colleague asked jokingly: "Does the law require that you have a Vice President?" McGovern wasted little time in trying to find a new one. He remained close to Massachusetts Senator Edward Kennedy at the funeral and sat beside him on the return flight to Washington. There he began an intensive three-day drive to persuade Ted to run. He argued, in effect, that Kennedy would greatly add to the Democratic chances of victory. Kennedy would have a "better opportunity" to fight for some of his causes, such as ending the war and reordering national priorities. McGovern's pitch was soft-sell but persistent. Kennedy's refusal was just as determined. Ted argued with some emotion about his overriding duties to his family, the deep responsibility he feels to all the fatherless Kennedy children and to his mother Rose. "I told him no," said Kennedy later. "I wished him best of luck. I told him I'd help him in every way I could, and I shook his hand." The refusal was flat and firm. Politely, both men avoided mentioning two other considerations: whether Kennedy's Chappaquiddick experience would be as much a liability as Eagleton's shock treatments and the impact on Kennedy's career if a McGovern-Kennedy ticket were to lose to Nixon. Unaware of McGovern's overtures to Kennedy and buoyed by an outpouring of encouraging mail and calls, Eagleton had canceled his trip to the funeral and remained in Washington to prepare for his showdown meeting that night with McGovern. He still thought he had at least a slim chance to convince McGovern that he had become well and favorably known, and that if McGovern stuck with him, the controversy would fade in a few weeks. One well-wisher was Eagleton's friend Senator Gaylord Nelson of Wisconsin, who phoned to congratulate him on his "Face the Nation" appearance. "You performed magnificently." Replied Eagleton: "Come on over and have a cup of coffee." When Nelson joined him, Eagleton rehearsed the lawyer-like brief he was readying for McGovern. Nelson listened, offered no advice. He shared the anguish of his two friends Eagleton and McGovern, who seemed bent on a collision course. The Senate was in a late session when McGovern arrived about 7 p.m., walked up to Eagleton and suggested they meet in the Senate's Marble Room, a secluded lounge at the rear of the Senate chamber. Both men stopped at Nelson's desk and asked him to join them. McGovern and Eagleton sat side by side on a davenport, Nelson facing them in a stuffed chair. "They just wanted a good friend there," Nelson said later. "I didn't say a word." Eagleton started to plead his cause. "I want you to know," he said to McGovern, "what I've been hearing. I know you have been hearing from other people differently, but this is what I've got." He opened a manila envelope, in which he carried polls and other documents to bolster his arguments; he spoke earnestly but unemotionally, and presented his case in 15 minutes. McGovern listened, offered his counter-arguments on the danger of sidetracking the campaign for too long on the secondary issue of the vice-presidential candidate. He wanted to be made certain that Eagleton's health was no longer a problem. Eagleton called the Mayo Clinic, told one of his doctors: "Now I'm going to put George McGovern on the line." Eagleton withdrew to chat with Nelson, while McGovern talked with the doctor for 15 minutes. Eagleton placed a similar call to St. Louis Psychiatrist Frank Shobe, handed the phone to McGovern and withdrew again. McGovern was satisfied with the doctors' opinion that Eagleton had fully recovered. But he still contended that the Eagleton controversy would linger too long. Reluctantly, Eagleton yielded to McGovern's view that his candidacy would handicap the ticket. As Eagleton explained later: "This was a judgment on which reasonable men could differ." The 100-minute meeting was low-key, despite the high stakes for both men. Said Nelson: "There was not a single hint of harshness from either of them. What the hell, they like each other." Stepping into a jammed and klieg-lighted Senate Caucus Room, McGovern and Eagleton faced the press. McGovern praised Eagleton as "a talented, able United States Senator whose ability will make him a prominent figure in American politics for many, many years." He termed Eagleton's health "excellent," but said that any continued debate "will serve to further divide the party and the nation. Therefore we have agreed that the best course is for Senator Eagleton to step aside." Perspiring heavily and trembling slightly, Eagleton acknowledged the "thousands and thousands of people" who had urged him "to press on," but continued: "My personal feelings are secondary to the necessity to unify the Democratic Party and elect George McGovern as the next President of the United States." Interrupted by warm applause at one point, he smiled wanly and joked: "Wait, the best is yet to come." Added Eagleton gamely: "Senator McGovern is an eminently reasonable man. He has been fair to me. I haven't been bamboozled or intimidated or any such thing." Thus did Eagleton bow out, admirably hiding any feeling of torment or tragedy. Yet despite all of the trappings of gentility, this was a cold political execution. TUESDAY. Now the search for a replacement could begin in earnest and publicly--all too publicly, many would argue. McGovern asked for 15 minutes of prime television on the grounds that his detailed explanation of the vice-presidential quandary was of national concern. The networks turned him down when they learned he would not announce a new candidate. The effect was to make McGovern appear even more indecisive; in fact he still wanted: Ted Kennedy. All this day, McGovern went through the motions of telephoning various political and labor officials for their advice on a new candidate. McGovern returned to his Senate duties long enough to make a pitch for one of his main campaign themes: holding down the defense budget. But he suffered a sharp defeat as his amendment to cut the budget by $4 billion was smothered 59-33; 19 Democrats voted with the Administration. Then, by dining with Larry O'Brien and their wives at Washington's Jockey Club restaurant, McGovern sparked rumors that his campaign manager would be the new candidate. But repeatedly, he called Kennedy. "This is very flattering," said Kennedy at one point, but his answer was still no. It was a wearisome day; at midafternoon McGovern slumped into a Senate chair next to Muskie and confided: "I'm exhausted from what's happened in the last 48 hours." WEDNESDAY. The McGovern staff circulated a laundry list of possible candidates, and various staffers were assigned to check them out for any potential embarrassments out of their past. The names included Sargent Shriver, Wisconsin Governor Patrick Lucey, Boston Mayor Kevin White, Ohio Governor John Gilligan. But McGovern had decided he wanted someone of national repute to help heal the scars; he could no longer afford the luxury of a fresh face. If he could not get Kennedy, he wanted his old friend Connecticut Senator Abraham Ribicoff; if not Ribicoff, then Humphrey; if not Humphrey, then Askew; if not Askew, then Muskie. The joke went round the Senate that McGovern had posted a sign in the cloakroom: "Anybody willing to serve as my vice- presidential candidate please call the following number. Lying in bed reading a newspaper at 7:15 a.m., Ribicoff got a telephone call from McGovern, who was approaching him in a most roundabout way. "He asked me would I talk to Kennedy," Ribicoff said. "George thought there was a little uncertainty in Kennedy's refusal." A longtime Kennedy loyalist, Ribicoff phoned Kennedy in McLean, Va., detected no doubt at all in Kennedy's refusal. Abe called George back, reported the rejection. McGovern brought up Muskie, Humphrey, Shriver. Ribicoff said he liked them all, and the conversation ended. At 8:15 a.m. Ribicoff's phone rang again--and again it was McGovern. "Before even talking to these other fellows," said George, "I came back to the senior Senator from Connecticut as my choice." Replied Ribicoff: "Gee, George, you know how I feel about it. I'm going to do everything I can to help you in the campaign. But I want my independence. I want to be master of my own destiny. I have no further ambitions. The vice presidency is a miserable job. Every Vice President I've known has been a frustrated, miserable man." Ribicoff also had private reasons: two days later he married Lois Mathes of Miami (his first wife died last April). Again, almost desperately now, McGovern pleaded with Kennedy. Not unkindly, Kennedy said to a friend Wednesday afternoon: "It's difficult for George McGovern to take no for an answer." Finally, McGovern more or less gave up and began to court Humphrey. The Senate was working late on end-the-war amendments, on which each vote could prove decisive, when McGovern talked to majority Leader Mike Mansfield about a mildly embarrassing problem: since he did not rate high in Senate seniority, McGovern enjoyed no hideaway where he could talk secretly with prospective candidates. Mansfield slipped McGovern his key ring; the candidate could use Mansfield's plush room just off the Senate chamber. McGovern caught Humphrey's eye, motioned him to join him. "After this vote," Humphrey whispered. McGovern, just as persistent in his new chase, crawled over several Senators to whisper in Hubert's ear about Mansfield's room. Humphrey shook his head, pointed to the office of the Secretary of the Senate, which was closer. Then began a curious game in which George and Hubert tried to avoid press notice by entering and leaving the Senate chamber separately, taking different routes through various doors eventually leading to the Secretary's office, Room S-224. Once their timing was bad and, emerging from different doors, they collided and laughed sheepishly. "Woops!" said Humphrey. The ritual was observed by TIME's Neil MacNeil, who asked Humphrey if he had been offered second place. "We are talking about some matters of mutual interest," beamed Humphrey. Actually, he had been asked and was firmly declining. McGovern's pursuit of Humphrey continued on and off inside the Senate chamber. Finally, Humphrey candidly explained why he would not run. He said that he would do anything to help McGovern get elected and hoped to swing some of his followers to McGovern's cause. He had enjoyed talking to McGovern again after the long primary battles. "Just to be his buddy again was a wonderful reward for me." But he added: "Imagine Hubert Humphrey on that ticket, and then you start showing the things we disagree on. Or poor old Hubert, he just had to get on. He just couldn't remain off. He smelled the sawdust again and there he's in the ring. Well, bull. I don't need to be in the ring. I'm just not going to leave myself open to any more humiliating, debilitating exposure. I don't want anything from George. There isn't a single thing he can give me, not one damn thing. And I can maybe help him in a way that nobody else can because I know a lot of people who say they aren't for him." THURSDAY. Now McGovern's original list was dwindling, but some new names had appeared. As he sat down to breakfast with Humphrey, it was to seek Hubert's advice about such other figures as Shriver, Askew and Idaho Senator Frank Church. Humphrey immediately pushed Shriver but, he recalled, "George wanted to try Askew." McGovern placed a call to the Florida Governor, who was about to leave on vacation for North Carolina. Askew asked for time to consider, and McGovern reached him again in midafternoon in Asheville, N.C. Askew then declined on grounds that there was too much he wanted to accomplish in Florida. So, on to the fifth target of the week: Muskie. McGovern had been miffed at Muskie since the Democratic Convention, where he thought Muskie had been unduly eager to stop the McGovern drive, even when Muskie was totally out of contention. McGovern could forgive Humphrey, because Hubert had had some chance to win. Otherwise, Muskie might not have been this far down on the list. Nevertheless, by now McGovern wanted Muskie badly enough to reverse protocol: instead of summoning the prospective candidate, McGovern, unnoticed by newsmen, drove out to Muskie's Bethesda house. He arrived at 9:30 p.m. He had wanted to come earlier, but Muskie had put him off: his daughter was cooking dinner for him and would be there until about 9. Muskie, wearing a turtleneck sweater and slacks, was listening to a recording of Bernstein's Mass. "It's O.K.," quipped Catholic Muskie to Methodist McGovern, "You don't have to genuflect." Muskie gave him a tour of the house, which McGovern had never seen before. Then they sat for two hours in Muskie's study, Ed behind the massive desk he had used as Governor of Maine. The two had never been socially close, and Muskie did not think to offer George a drink. "Does he drink?" Muskie later asked TIME correspondent John Austin. (He does, but not often.) McGovern opened by indicating the type of candidate he wanted: someone who could command wide support among his followers and whom the nation could readily accept as a potential President. He said that he hoped to expand the duties of the Vice President so as to involve him actively in both foreign and domestic policy. Muskie readily agreed that the Vice President must not "just participate by sitting there, but be actually involved" in policymaking. As the two men puffed on Phillies cigars, Muskie candidly expressed some reservations about the job. "I have to ask myself, `Can I bring a fresh attitude to the vice-presidential job?'" Muskie explained later. "Can it be sufficiently interesting to run for it again?" he noted that the staffs of the two men "have been in a posture of confrontation all year--rightfully and understandably. But can they be merged? There's still some bitterness on both sides." Muskie mentioned "the attitude of my wife and family. Can they crank themselves up again? They've been through a traumatic experience this year." Finally, he wondered if he and McGovern could work together closely enough. "There must be a relationship of mutual understanding and confidence to override all the little, petty, nit-picking friction points that are bound to develop in any campaign." As the meeting broke up, both men agreed to talk further after Muskie had had time to consider. "This has been one of the most difficult periods of my life," confided McGovern as he was leaving. "I'm determined to take enough time to make the right decision." Replied Muskie: "So am I, George." FRIDAY. When Muskie awoke at 7 a.m. and stepped outside to get his morning newspaper, he recalled, "there were the goddam reporters waiting outside." Instead of going to his Senate office, Muskie summoned his top staff men to his house. For nearly four hours he huddled with them, making calls to Senator Hart, Iowa Senator Harold Hughes and Arizona Congressman Morris Udall. He had already called his wife Jane in Kennebunk Beach, Me., and she urged him not to accept. Muskie then surprised newsmen by grabbing an overnight bag and catching a plane to Maine to discuss the matter with Jane. On the flight, he talked further to TIME's Austin. He differed with McGovern on some issues, and he wondered "just how far the Vice President can disagree in public with the President." He thought, on the other hand, the public might like a Veep who "is not a carbon copy of the President." Was he irked at being McGovern's fifth choice this week? "No, I'm not egotistical enough to think I'm the only option open to George McGovern." Muskie opened a newspaper, read his horoscope for the day, and laughed heartily. It said: "Being calm and affectionate fills a great need in your family circle. There is little to gain in rushing around in unfamiliar places." He talked solemnly of how his wife has "taken our declining fortunes this year much harder than I have. She can't seem to forget that at one point she became an issue. [Jane Muskie was criticized for allegedly liking pre-dinner cocktails and salty jokes in an article reprinted in the Manchester, N.H., Union Leader. This led to Muskie's denouncing its publisher, William Loch, in a tearful speech.] I'm tough. I've got a hide six layers thick by now. But she is more sensitive to it all, especially to what the press said about me being indecisive, wishy-washy and what not. I'm going to talk to Jane. I can tell you this. If she says no, I won't do it." Interrupted by callers offering advice, Ed and Jane found themselves still discussing the matter past midnight. He finally went to bed, still undecided. SATURDAY. Muskie awoke at 6:30 a.m. and concentrated on the problem. By 7 a.m. his mind was made up. "I could have called George then, but I wanted to give him a chance for a decent night's rest," he related. He placed the call at 8:30 a.m., explained to McGovern that he had to turn the offer down. It was, he told a press conference, "a family decision, not a political decision." Looking relieved, he later told Austin, referring to the vice presidency: "Well, that should kill the snake. The goddam thing keeps popping up, but that should finally finish it." Within a few hours after learning of Muskie's rejection, McGovern put through the call to Shriver. Since the acceptance was already assured, the conversation was brief. Said McGovern: "Senator Muskie has reached a decision that, principally for family reasons, he feels it would be inappropriate for him to be on the ticket. I'm calling you now, Sarge. You remember our conversation of yesterday. I want to know if you still feel the same way, and if you're still willing to make the race with me." Said Shriver: "Yes." Later Shriver told TIME Correspondent Dean Fischer that he "never really thought I'd be the first person asked. My brother-in-law would have been a wonderful candidate. I figured when Senator Muskie was asked, I didn't really expect to be asked. I'm just happy the others were unable to accept." The choice of Shriver adds to the ticket a man with an unusual blend of contrasting qualities. Shriver is relatively well known, yet has none of the retread aura of having run for office before; politically, his is a fresh face. He has ties with wealth and big business through the Kennedys and his former executive role at Chicago's Merchandise Mart. His Peace Corps work may appeal to the young and his antipoverty work to blacks. The Peace Corps experience and the ambassadorship to France have given him some insight into world affairs. He is a livelier speaker than McGovern, and an innovative thinker: running OEO, he inaugurated Head Start, community medical centers and legal services to the poor. As Humphrey noted last week, "Sarge is just what George needs--somebody with enthusiasm, somebody with zip." Salvage. The official selection of Shriver was to be made by the Democratic National Committee this week in Washington. A few days before it met, the committee's makeup was still not entirely certain. It was not wholly controlled by McGovern supporters, and there were disputes over just who would be eligible to vote. There was even some apprehension that credentials challenges would be renewed--and some Democrats worried that more embarrassing quarrels could erupt. However, as the national networks geared themselves to cover the meeting with much the same intensity they focused on a Miami Beach convention, it seemed likely that the party would put on a show of unity. Declared a nervous Frank Mankiewicz: "People who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it on prime time." There is no doubt that the party has been seriously set back by its incredible two-week ordeal over the vice-presidential candidate. Conceded Gary Hart: "It's our darkest hour. Only time will tell how badly we've been hurt." One sign of the troubles came in a survey by Cambridge Opinion Studies, which showed that McGovern's candidacy--even apart from the Eagleton controversy--was so far leading to large-scale defections by Jewish voters in New York State, and that McGovern, at the moment, would lose to Nixon there by 51% to 43%. No successful Democratic candidate for President has failed to carry New York since Harry Truman in 1948. All of the McGovern aides admit that their campaign has lost its post-convention momentum and that its fund-raising has been stalled; some 1.5 million letters will be going into the mails this week. They contend that organizational work has been continuing, however, and that a voter-registration drive is proceeding on schedule. Argues Hart: "Once our ticket gets moving, a lot of this will be gone, if not forgotten." Indeed, the early travail could be submerged by other events and issues as the campaign moves on toward November. Yet the fumbling start had knocked much of the glow of a new political movement off the McGovern candidacy. The most difficult immediate task may be to regenerate enthusiasm among McGovern's followers. No one was more aware of his campaign needs than George McGovern. He moved swiftly to try to salvage something out of the debacle by adroitly using the free TV announcement time to attack Nixon. He urged Americans to join the Democrats in making a "choice of the century--between your hopes and your fears--between today's America and the one you want for your children." The Nixon Administration, he charged, represents "the belief that political power exists to serve private power," and has presided for four years "over a continued deterioration in the conditions of American life"; it has failed to stop the war, reform welfare, make streets safer or air cleaner. "Our land is being ravaged, while our cities become more painful and dangerous. It is almost as if we had turned our own creations against us--had forgotten that the purpose of wealth and power is not to increase itself, but to enlarge the happiness of the individual." There will be many other addresses and many other forums for both parties to debate and inspire before November. But both incumbent and candidate are right in agreeing that there is a genuine choice to be made between Richard Nixon and George McGovern. It was high time to get on with weighing that choice and its political consequences on the merits of men and issues. The New Nominee: No Longer "Half a Kennedy" Sargent Shriver has been patiently waiting on the sidelines for so long that his selection by default seems almost anticlimactic. In 1964 Lyndon Johnson was interested in having Shriver as his running mate if the Kennedy family had no objections. Shriver's wife Eunice, the most vigorous of the Kennedy sisters, was quick to set the record straight. "No," she reportedly said, "it's Bob's turn." Kennedy Aide Ken O'Donnell was even blunter. He sent word to Shriver that if any Kennedy clansman was going to run for Vice President, it would be Bobby, not "half a Kennedy." Four years later Hubert Humphrey wanted Shriver to accompany him on the Democratic ticket but turned instead to Ed Muskie, partly because, as Humphrey puts it, the family made it plain that they had no interest in a Shriver nomination. Shriver is the first to realize how much his membership by marriage in the Kennedy family had both plagued and promoted his political career. He is, in fact, the maverick in-law, an ambitious man whose efforts to go on his own way have created a longstanding coolness between himself and some of the Kennedy family members. Not that he can or even wants to shake the ties that bind him to the charismatic Kennedy image. Kennedys or no Kennedys, Sargent Shriver would be seeking a high position. "For 250 years my family has been in public office," he says. "We've always been bankers, businessmen, public officials. It's a natural thing." The Shriver pride is an inherited trait. "We're nicer than the Kennedys," his mother once said. "We've been here since the 1600s. "We're rooted in the land of Maryland." Shrivers fought in the French and Indian War and the Revolutionary War; one ancestor, David Shriver, was a member of the original Bill of Rights Congress, and Sargent's grandfather rode with Jeb Stuart in the Confederate cavalry. Son of a banker, Robert Sargent Shriver Jr. was born in Westminster, Md., where the nearby family homestead and grain mill, built in 1797, is now a museum run by the Shriver Foundation. Sargent prepped at Canterbury School, New Milford, Conn., went on to graduate cum laude from Yale. As editor of the Yale Daily News, Shriver, a Catholic, once proudly described himself as "Christian, Aristotelian, optimist and American." After graduating from Yale law school, he joined the Navy and fought the war on battleships and in submarines in both the Atlantic and the Pacific. Working in New York after the war, he met toothy, tawny- haired Eunice Kennedy at a cocktail party. Joseph P. Kennedy, impressed with his daughter's handsome, 6-ft. suitor, offered young Sarge a job at his Merchandise Mart in Chicago. Shriver accepted and eventually moved up to assistant general manager of the Mart; he wed the boss's daughter in 1953, and they settled down in a 14-room duplex. Shriver's energetic involvement in local affairs, most notably as president of the Chicago board of education for five years, prompted some pols to tout him as a promising candidate for the 1964 Illinois gubernatorial race. Chicago Mayor Richard Daley, however, dashed Shriver's hopes when he let it be known that he was supporting the Democratic incumbent, Otto Kerner. It was the first of Shriver's several disappointing attempts to run for elective office. In 1960 Shriver left Chicago to join the presidential campaign of his brother-in-law, John F. Kennedy, as an adviser. Described by Theodore White in "The Making of the President 1960" as "the gentlest and warmest of the Kennedy clan," Sargent was appointed director of the newly formed Peace Corps the following year. He reluctantly accepted the job, he says, only after J.F.K. told him that "everyone in Washington thought that the Peace Corps was going to be the biggest fiasco in history, and that it would be easier to fire a relative than a friend." Shriver developed the corps into one of the U.S.'s most successful and fastest growing peacetime agencies. In his first two years on the job, he logged 350,000 miles visiting corps outposts, learned to sleep sitting up in a Jeep, ate countless helpings of stomach-turning local dishes, developed three cases of dysentery, and bravely insisted all the while that "I have the best damn job in Government." In 1964, at the behest of Lyndon Johnson, Shriver took on the additional job of director of the Office of Economic Opportunity. A realist, Shriver said at the time that the all-out war on poverty was and would continue to be "noisy, visible, dirty, uncomfortable and sometimes politically unpopular." Shriver's performance in that war won him valuable battle ribbons as a friend of the poor and disaffected. When he left the Peace Corps, some 1,500 former staffers and volunteers crowded a huge Shriver-a-go-go farewell party; at one high point, Harry Belafonte called from the stage: "We'll miss you, baby.." Appointed U.S. Ambassador to France in 1968, Shriver continued his frenetic pace on the foreign front. Says one observer of the Shriver style: "He thought it was better to try 50 things and succeed in 30 of them than to try ten and succeed in ten." Some things did succeed. Helped by Nixon's admiration for De Gaulle, the acerbated diplomatic relations between the U.S. and France became better than they had been in more than a decade. The fact that Shriver was the only Kennedy man to stay on during the Johnson and Nixon Administrations did not, however, improve his relations with the family back home. When Bobby Kennedy announced his presidential candidacy in 1968, many clan members, especially Bobby's wife Ethel, were miffed because Shriver did not promptly return home to join the campaign. Two years later, when Shriver resigned his ambassadorship with the hope of possibly running for Bobby's New York Senate seat, the family reacted with a firm no. "Ethel," says one Kennedy aide, "couldn't abide the thought of Shriver in Bobby's old Senate seat." Turning to his home state of Maryland, Shriver campaigned briefly in 1970 as an undeclared gubernatorial candidate against the Democratic incumbent, Marvin Mandel, who proved too securely dug in to be challenged. To keep visible, Shriver accepted the petition of more than 100 Democratic Congressmen to head up a group called the Congressional Leadership for the Future. For the four months before the 1970 election, Shriver visited 32 states stumping vigorously for the election of 80 Democratic candidates for Congress, everywhere calling Nixon "King Richard" and Agnew "the nation's great divider." After the election, Shriver became a partner in the law firm of Fried, Frank, Harris, Shriver & Kampelman. A charmer in a Cardin suit and Gucci loafers (he has made the top-ten best- dressed lists), he surprised some of his associates by putting in long hours and energetically taking on such vital but generally shunned jobs as recruiting top law students for the firm. "At first," says one partner, "I thought he was a lot of smooth oil. Now I'm very high on him." One of his problems will be making the most of the Kennedy image while still remaining his own independent man. The shadow is not easy to shake. A few years ago, in an effort to inspire one of his five children to work harder at his studies, Shriver explained that "when Abraham Lincoln was your age, he walked twelve miles back and forth to school every day." "That's nothing," the boy replied, "When Uncle Jack was your age, he was President of the United States." Eagleton: After the Fall "Charley! How 'bout that for the shortest campaign in history...Naw, I'm not a bit down in the dumps about it..." "Hello, Joseph...I like short campaigns...I've got nothing but smiles...It was an interesting week, to say the least..." "No, no, Congressman...Give him all the help you can...We need a new President." Feet propped on his desk in the New Senate Office Building, cradling the phone as he took calls from friends, political associates and downright strangers, ex-Nominee Tom Eagleton was probably more relaxed than he had even been during his frenetic political career. Gone were the trembles that sometimes appeared during his brief and furious reign on the Democratic ticket. At times his manner was a bit too bluff and hearty, sometimes wistful, but rarely if ever self-pitying. "For seven days in a row, I was under the greatest pressure I've ever been in my life," he told TIME's Jess Cook with a certain satisfaction. "Being my own teacher, I give myself passing, indeed very high marks." Eagleton's sudden rise and fall in national Democratic politics was one of the odder chapters of recent American politics, surely sufficiently swift to give any man the psychic bends. In his cheeriness, there was some suggestion that Eagleton himself might have had doubts about his ability to take the strain. But overall, he endured his abrupt anointment and excommunication with thoroughbred resilience. As he left the Senate after his final session with McGovern, Eagleton insisted upon shaking hands with a dozen onlookers on the street: "Goodnight, folks. Vote for McGovern." When he reached his white brick house in suburban Bethesda, Md., he found that his wife Barbara had coolly organized a gathering. "I have a long skirt on and the dog has a bow," she said determinedly. "We are going to have a party tonight." She passed cheese and crackers while the Senator circulated with small talk among 65 friends and neighbors who stopped by. He also warned his staff to avoid any sniping at McGovern. Said he: "I am not critical of anything in this experience in the past week." Back home in Missouri, Eagleton's political allies took the whole episode with less equanimity. A few talked angrily of organizing a draft-Eagleton move this week when the Democratic National Committee meets to ratify his successor. It seemed that if anything, Eagleton's position was considerably strengthened in his home state, where he is up for re-election in 1974. "If the election were held today," said an aide to Governor Warren Hearnes, "Tom would be elected unanimously." At the same time, Eagleton's departure from the ticket unquestionably diminishes McGovern's chances of carrying the state. Ordeal. From across the nation, Eagleton received an extraordinary outpouring of support and sympathy. His office reported that 98% of the initial calls and letters were favorable. [TIME discovered that, ironically, one group that did not support the idea of Eagleton for Vice President was made up of other former victims of depression who themselves have received shock treatment.] That flood was doubtless enhanced by Columnist Jack Anderson's public apology and retraction of charges he had made that Eagleton had a history of arrests for drunken driving. Eagleton himself seemed philosophical. Said he: "I never had the burning ambition to be President that some people have. I'm not a Kennedy in that regard. My be-all and end-all since I was eleven was to get to the U.S. Senate." Should he ever be unexpectedly tapped again, he joked: "The first thing I'm going to do is ask, `Do you know about my health problems?'" He also admitted to a vast relief that his history is now out in the open and no longer something hidden and always threatening his present. All along, the Eagletons worried about the effect on their two children, Christie, 9, and Terry, 13. So far there seem to be no scars. Says Barbara Eagleton: "Christie has been a blithe spirit. The only thing she knows is that her social life has escalated fantastically. She's the most popular person in our neighborhood. Terry is at camp, where there's almost a news blackout." Tom called his son there to advise him to ignore any teasing he might receive and reported: "It sounded perfect. He's not thinking about me, he's thinking about scavenger hunts." Hours after his ordeal ended, Eagleton wryly told a TV audience: "I'm not going to go around the country giving lectures on mental health." But after a day's reflection, he remarked that he might devote some of his future time in the Senate to promoting the cause of mental health. For the present, he looked forward to a previously planned vacation at Delaware's Bethany Beach, then some campaigning in the fall for the Democratic ticket. By week's end his transition back to the relative privacy of a Senator's life was almost complete. His appointments schedule promised eventually to subside to a more sedate routine, and Eagleton's atmosphere had cleared like the aftermath of a severe and flukish summer storm. </body> </article> </text>