Calhoun had died two years ago. Henry Clay had died within the past two
months. Daniel Webster lay on his death bed at Mansfield. And there
were none in sight to take their places. We had begun the process of
leveling. We had begun to degrade power, to scatter talent, to pull down
our leaders to the level of the mob, in the name of democracy.

He faced this fact with grave misgivings. He believed that the first
requirement of human society, if it shall live, is the discovery of men
fit to command--to lead.

With the passing of Clay, Calhoun and Webster the Washington on which
he gazed, the Washington of 1852, had ceased to be a forum of great
thought, of high thinking and simple living. It had become the scene of
luxury and extravagance. The two important establishments of the city
were Gautier's, the restaurateur and caterer--the French genius who
prepared the feasts for jeweled youth; and Gait, the jeweler who sold
the precious stones to adorn the visions of beauty at these banquets.

The two political parties had fallen to the lowest depths of groveling
to vote getting by nominating the smallest men ever named for
Presidential honors. The Democrats had passed all their real leaders and
named as standard-bearer an obscure little politician of New Hampshire,
Mr. Franklin Pierce. His sole recommendation for the exalted office was
that he would carry one or two doubtful Northern states and with the
solid South could thus be elected. The Whig convention in Baltimore
had cast but thirty-two votes for Daniel Webster and had nominated a
military figurehead, General Winfield Scott.

The Nation was without a leader. And the low rumble of the crowd--the
growl of the primal beast--could be heard in the distance with