There is a true and tragic tale about how Baltimore bought the 1912 Democratic National Convention and messed it up so badly that the city has not been awarded one since.
The story is sad because in the earliest times Baltimore had such a lock on Democratic presidential nominating conventions that it hosted all six between 1832, when Andrew Jackson was selected, and 1852, when Franklin Pierce got the nod. After that Baltimore managed to snag two more — even as Chicago and St. Louis became the party’s favorite convention cities.
When 1912 approached, Mayor James H. Preston coveted the national limelight in the worst way. He wanted to showcase the new downtown, built in the eight years following the Great Baltimore Fire. He also wanted the No. 2 spot on the ticket, which would be sweet indeed for Maryland because the man headed for nomination, Woodrow Wilson, studied and taught at Johns Hopkins University before he became governor of New Jersey.
To get the convention, Preston delivered a certified check for $100,000, (which would be more than $2 million today,) twice what Chicago offered. Other sweeteners included free use of a convention hall. It seemed like everyone would be happy.
It seemed wrong.
The Washington Post’s story on the convention’s first day said it all: “Paying $100,000 for a Democratic donkey, Baltimore today found herself with a white elephant on her hands when she surrendered, literally, not figuratively, to a deluge of humanity from all quarters of the United States.”
Traffic tied up, lodging was in such a short supply that delegates were offered cots or rooms in Washington, D.C. Inadequate elevators at the city’s two premiere hotels, the Emerson and the Belvedere, broke down, forcing important politicians to trudge up ten or fifteen flights of stairs.
“In some enlightened age a law will be passed prohibiting the holding of National Conventions anywhere except in Chicago. In that town they are used to convention crowds and know how to handle them,” wrote a New York Times reporter. Nevertheless, the headline of the story declared: “Great, Happy Crowd Swamps Baltimore.”
Baltimore put on the best show it knew how to put on. The convention was big on marching bands. A band from Alabama “made all the previous marching clubs look cheap,” according to The New York Times. “It was headed by a dozen Southerners in a carriage, it had a brass band that refused to play any tune except Dixie, and it was accompanied by a man selling Confederate flags. Also it let out at frequent intervals the rebel yell. It had with it a man who carried a live rooster, and occasionally he would try to induce the rooster to crow.”
Such merriment could not make up for the sweltering weather. Early on, no one paid too much attention to the rising temperatures inside the cavernous Fifth Regiment Armory, where no political signs were allowed, only portraits of Washington, Jefferson and Jackson. But as the convention dragged on, delegates grew grumpy. Preston’s vice presidential dreams died. Forty-six ballots were required to nominate Wilson before exhausted delegates could head home.
Never again, Democrats pledged, and they have kept their word. Republicans have never ventured closer to Baltimore than Philadelphia.
Baltimore seems destined to be out of the convention sweepstakes for good. Its hotel and hospitality amenities, despite recent additions, are as woefully inadequate as they were in Preston’s times. Baltimore is a branch-office town incapable of raising the kind of money that political parties now routinely demand.
While he was mayor, Martin O’Malley justified spending taxpayer money to build a new hotel by increasing the possibility that Baltimore might be able to compete for presidential nominating conventions. Dream on, governor. Sing us an Irish song.
Antero Pietila is writing a book about how bigotry shaped Baltimore between 1910 and 1975. His e-mail address is [email protected].
