I DON’T WANT TO SOUND like a sniffy scholar, some gray tepid don smelling of water biscuits, beeswax and old superiority, but the longer I live with the potluck our democracy has served up of late in the way of presidents, the more I find myself limping away to the library to savor the Early American dish. It is not, I must admit, as hearty as I had hoped. Now I know that the high tone of history books is deceiving, that the dignified historians with three names have had to deal with as much official cupidity and stupidity as your modern Washington Post man.
In other words, after 184 years and 37 presidents, we’ve only had a dozen or so worth a damn. So relax and trust in the Republic, which is the people and not the president—it’s not going to unravel over Richard M. when it’s scraped the bottom of the barrel with the likes of Franklin P., James B., Ulysses S., and Warren G., and still survived!
Besides, valleys eventually run into peaks and high presidential profiles, enough to emblazon Mt. Rushmore and give us heart, so persevere and keep your eyes peeled for a good man—or woman.
