“An Undelivered Address” by B. W. Huebsch (The Freeman, Aug 8, 1923):

The train stopped at a small station on the plains in a Western State, and the President appeared on the platform of the observation-car at the rear. There was some lively hand-clapping, but it stopped suddenly when the President signalled that he was about to speak.

“My fellow-citizens,” he said, “it is indeed pleasant to be welcomed by groups of citizens everywhere. It is plain that political friends and adversaries sink their differences in order to express their respect for the high office which I happen to occupy. I might easily delude myself concerning the significance of your enthusiasm, but from my knowledge of the past I am aware that you would greet any President in exactly the same way.

“You have been kind to me, and I will be frank with you. It has long been the custom of our citizens to demand that, when a plain man – one of you – becomes, oftener by a series of accidents than because of superior merit, the chief officer of the Government, he gives utterance to profound wisdom on every subject under the sun, early and often. The people like to ignore the fact that when a farmer or an editor becomes President he remains the same farmer or editor that he was before election. The office confers honour, responsibility and dignity, but not learning or wisdom. Too frequently the President permits himself to be blinded to this truth by the eager acceptance, by large numbers, of all that he says; and, once he has fallen into error, he begins to believe that his words are prophetic or otherwise important. Thus he is led to consider himself endowed, by virtue of his position, with gifts that are bestowed by an inscrutable power upon leaders of men but not necessarily upon politicians; and in his anxiety to respond to the clamour of his fellows for an opinion on all subjects, he is bound to say many things that are ill-considered, puerile and unworthy. Eventually he is found out, for, in the long run, the people do find out. Then the people laugh him into oblivion and contemn him.

“My friends, the fault lies with you. Every man who attains to this high place, even a petty man, enters it with a resolve to do his duty, as he conceives it. If you would but permit him to mind his own business he might step down, at the conclusion of his term, with a reasonable amount of self-respect, and with the respect of his countrymen. But you insist on his being a philosopher, a poet, a financier, a statesman, an historian, a bon viveur and – most reprehensible of all – you almost force him to become a dictator.

“Your good-natured importunity has ruined men who might have proved to be good Presidents, cobblers who intended to stick to their last, but whom you forced to be vicars of God. I speak thus to you because I seem to have seen the light for a moment, and I wish to unburden myself while the inspiration lasts. By the time we arrive at the capital of your State, in a few hours, I presume that the Presidential habit will have got the better of me, and I shall deliver the address prepared for me by one of my secretaries, on co-operative farming, Greek drama, the gold standard, a universal tribunal, vegetarianism and infant damnation. Give me your earnest prayers. Farewell.”