The enormous advantage of the discipline
of history, when compared with the com-
pulsions of journalism, is that no one's
picking winners and losers in the turns
of human events. Yesterday's winner, the
historian is relieved not to have to say,
was a President of the United States who
had the presence of mind to head out for
a round of golf, as the National Cathed-
ral, that ostensibly Episcopal place of
worship, was given over as Westminster
Spencer in the pulpit, damning enemies
named and lewdly implied, did not out-
do the mourners of the man in the box;
and history records he was applauded,
in the righteous zeal with which media
critics of the President teased him for
being ostracized. As Groucho Marx re-
marked of a country club that invited
him, it obviously wasn't worth joining.
I think our perspective on the American
President is sufficiently established,
by now, to allow the plain verdict that
he certainly won that round, not to be
tainted by fainting spells of umbrage.
Her Majesty had always been right: the
occasion called for introspective grief.
Every sacred pretext for the obsequies
was smashed and trashed, and an entire,
institutionally obligated, if exploited
congregation's respects traduced, by a
festival of recrimination in the guise
of a Requiem, beneath the Cross and in
the presence of innocent servicemen, of
God and of country. Shame seems not to
live here anymore. To be a historian!
Instead of witnessing that. Who hasn't
Wiktor Sudol
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