The Forgotten Wisdom of Silent Cal

In, But Not Of: A column examining conservatism in the era of the New Right

It is a curious thing, the way history forgets some presidents and refuses to let go of others. Calvin Coolidge, the 30th President of the United States, governed in a time of peace and prosperity, which was in no small measure due to his defense of limited government and American industry and his aversion to foreign entanglements. An unyielding budget hawk, he slashed government spending and consistently reduced the national debt during his time in office. His party preached the virtues of economic nationalism and a restrained executive branch. Yet despite these successes, his presidency is often overshadowed by the tumultuous era that followed. Ask the average American to name him, and you will likely receive a blank stare.

Donald Trump, by contrast, is inescapable. The 47th President dominates headlines, courtrooms, and campaign rallies with equal force, his presence as much a cultural phenomenon as it is a political one. Coolidge and Trump may share certain noble ideological commitments—limiting immigration, defending American business, and challenging foreign competition—but their similarities end where their temperaments begin. Coolidge was a man of few words and believed deeply that “the chief business of America is business.” Trump, a man of many words, has made it clear that the chief business of America is Trump. Where Coolidge is characterized by restraint, the Great Tweeter is defined by excess.

What can the quietest president in American history teach its loudest? And what does the contrast between the two reveal about the evolution of the Republican Party—and the country itself?

The reserved and modest “Silent Cal” hailed from an austere hamlet in rural Vermont and took on the garrulous pursuit of politics beginning in 1899 as a city councilman for Northampton, Massachusetts. He would later be elected mayor of Northampton, Governor of Massachusetts, and Vice President under President Warren G. Harding before Harding’s sudden death. He ultimately completed the remainder of Harding’s term and was reelected to another term as President of his own.

For “The Great Refrainer,” the presidency was not a platform for self-aggrandizement but instead carried a solemn duty to treat the institutions and traditions of American governance with humility and restraint. Coolidge’s philosophy of leadership is best summarized in his own words: “There is only one form of political strategy in which I have any confidence, and that is to try to do the right thing and sometimes to succeed.” In his characteristically brief 100-page autobiography, Coolidge claimed that “It is a great advantage to a president and a major source of safety to the country, for him to know he is not a great man.” He then further elaborated that “[w]hen a man begins to feel that he is the only one who can lead the republic, he is guilty of treason to the spirit of the institutions.” This sentiment finds no home anywhere today. When Trump declared, “Nobody knows the system better than me, which is why I alone can fix it,” no one was surprised—not merely because it sounded like the kind of thing he would say, but because it sounded like the kind of thing most modern politicians would say. That sentiment is the very antithesis of Coolidge’s philosophy. Where Coolidge saw restraint as a virtue, today’s strongmen equate humility with weakness. Where Coolidge warned against personal indispensability, modern populists embrace it, draping themselves in the trappings of necessity and singular vision. But history is unkind to such men. “The mighty in their pride walk alone to destruction,” Coolidge warned. The republic has always outlasted those who believe themselves bigger than it.

The new administration’s flurry of changes—eliminating DEI programs, withdrawing from the Paris Agreement, delaying the TikTok ban, pardoning January 6th defendants, creating the Department of Government Efficiency, and potentially eliminating the Department of Education—has been framed as a restoration of those ideals. But disruption alone does not amount to realignment. Coolidge slashed federal programs too, but his governance was guided by a deep-seated belief in constitutional limits and fiscal prudence rather than political theatrics. He understood that restraint was not passivity but principle, that governance required prudence rather than provocation. The question is not whether these actions return the government to its proper scope—some arguably do—but whether they are being undertaken with the discipline and clarity that realignment demands. Coolidge’s words remind us that true leadership is not about spectacle but about discerning which principles are worth preserving and applying with renewed seriousness.

Coolidge’s belief that “those who seek popularity so seldom find it” underscores a crucial difference between the Republicans of the two ‘20s. Trump’s political survival hinges on his ability to dominate the public consciousness, in that it relies on holding the unwavering attention of the public and, in reacting to him, causing his opponents to embarrass themselves. Coolidge, on the other hand, understood that legitimacy comes not from bombast but from adherence to principle.

The 30th President left a legacy grounded in a Burkean respect for the rule of law, a dogged commitment to fiscal discipline, and an acute understanding that state and local governments were the true engines of democracy. But his pragmatic presidency was followed by forty years in which conservatives struggled to define their party’s identity and goals amid the Great Depression, the rise of the New Deal coalition, and later, World War II. Critics might argue that Coolidge’s restraint left the Right unprepared to counter Roosevelt’s expansive vision of government. But if his approach lacked the political aggression necessary for survival, it is also fair to ask whether the opposite—governance by sheer force of will—ensures a more enduring legacy.

The Trump administration would do well to take heed of Coolidge’s lesson: restraint is not passivity but principle. Disruption without discipline risks fleeting victories and deeper instability, whereas a clear-eyed application of conservative principles—grounded in constitutional limits and fiscal responsibility—offers a more lasting course correction.

CINCINNATUS