Bryan went down to defeat again in 1900, on this new issue, and as usual epitaphs were written over his political grave. It is a favorite parlor game; but Bryan never stays dead, because there is something enduring in him. What is it? That same spokesmanship for the average man of many regions, the man of the little parlor with the melodeon or parlor organ, the plush-bound photograph album and the "History of the San Francisco Earthquake" bought by subscription from a book agent, and the grandfather's clock in the corner of the hall. But in 1904 the Democratic leaders, tired of defeat, turned desperately to the opposite wing of the party. The radical leaders, really opportunists, forswore or hid their convictions for the sake of victory, tried to teach their unskillful tongues the language of conservatism, and joined in with the conservatives in the nomination of Parker. But Bryan did not yield; he forswore nothing, hid nothing, and he fought a lonely fight, the bravest of his life. His fight was of one man against a multitude. Alone, he had to be everywhere; he was in the Committee on Resolutions, in the Committee on Credentials, on the floor of the convention, speaking, fighting, working, twenty hours a day. He had no one to help him; all his fellows were on the other side, strangling their convictions and fighting against him. He was insulted on the platform, even by fellow-radicals; he was elbowed aside and snarled at by men who had been more radical than himself; attempts were made to deny him a hearing. Nothing could daunt him or perturb him; he fought on until Parker was nominated, went to his hotel at dawn as the convention adjourned, and fell into his bed in utter collapse. A doctor was summoned, who said that Bryan must instantly give up all work and undergo treatment. That evening the news came that Parker had refused to run unless the word "gold" was written into the platform; the convention was thrown into panic; the sick man rose from his bed and entered the wild and turbulent hall, white-faced, breathing with difficulty, sweat pouring down his face, and there took up the work again, single-handed still. He fought on all night, was defeated again, and went under the doctor's hands. Those speeches in that convention were really the greatest of his life, though they may not read as well as others; each of them was a battle. Parker's defeat by Roosevelt again erased that ever-recurring epitaph over Bryan's political grave. It was evident at once that nothing could prevent him from being again the candidate in 1908. Again he was defeated, and again the epitaph was jubilantly rewritten. He was extinguished, he would never again be an influence in the party; it was, to use the phrase of 1896, 1900, and 1904, "the end of Bryan."