Woodrow Wilson characterized the presidency as "the vital center of action" in the American political system. This comment stands in a tradition of commentary on the American presidency stretching back to Alexander Hamilton's essays in the Federalist. There, in Federalist No. 70, arguing for the necessity of "unity" in the presidency, Hamilton mentions the "secrecy and dispatch" which a single individual will be able to summon in pursuing the peculiar tasks of executive power, in particular, defending the nation and enforcing the laws. Additionally, Hamilton argues, the executive is critical in resisting forces of instability and anarchy which are endemic to democratic government. Continuing this theme through the next several papers, Hamilton presents a presidency which, anticipating Wilson's description, must be able to serve, obey, lead and resist the people, in addition to occasionally acting independently of their wishes.

Out of this complexity in the office of the presidency derives the necessity, or even the centrality, of a kind of presidential rhetoric as a critical component of presidential action. Presidential rhetoric has several functions in terms of presidential governance. Perhaps the main function is to explain the aims, characteristics and demands of the policies towards which a president may wish to lead the nation. Such explanation consists of clarifying the fundamental principles that underlie the policies. Also, it must make the American people aware of the consequences and costs of following those policies. The president owes this kind of explanation so that the American people can play their proper role in participating in the nation's common good and in evaluating the president's performance. Without doubt, this kind of rhetorical responsibility demands truthfulness in the president.

But, even so, the president must occasionally resort to lying or concealment. The necessity for secrecy and deception stems from the harshness of the world and the challenges that it poses to a nation's interest and survival and from the limits of popular understanding of the complexities of governance. Most Americans would probably admit the necessity and probity of the first justification for secrecy and deception; they would tend to call it "national security" or "defense" or even part of the strategy of enforcing the law, say, against organized crime. Seeing the limits of the popular understanding of governance would be more difficult for most of us, though. Yet, as Hamilton reminds us, the president must occasionally resist or ignore the will of the people. Although public opinion is unquestionably the necessary anchor for decent government, its shallowness, transience and partiality cannot provide the sufficient conditions for good government.

The delicacy in presidential leadership is resorting to secrecy and deception without reducing presidential rhetoric to it. Presidential deception is akin to John Locke's understanding of "executive prerogative" in the Second Treatise of Government. Its justification is necessity; it must be used for the public good; and, it must be used sparingly. The alternative is to replace the normal processes of government with the abnormal. And, as Locke suggests with executive prerogative, presidential deception must probably give way to public explanation in most cases. There can be excesses in both directions, too. Not only did Jimmy Carter try to micromanage the complexities of his policies, he probably tried too strenuously to explain everything to the American people. Striving to break down the distinction between presidential reasoning and public reasoning, he wanted to democratize his presidency as much as possible. George Bush may have "underrhetorized" his presidency, so that the American people may eventually have lost sight of what the principles of his administration were, to the extent of becoming convinced that perhaps none existed. Richard Nixon may have been relatively forthright in the explanations of his broad policies, but in attempting to contain the damage to his administration unleashed by the Watergate break-in, he appeared to resort so frequently to lying that he eventually lost the trust of the American people.

That delicate balance between truthfulness and deceit is what President Clinton does not appear to understand. Too often in his campaign for, and his conduct of, the presidency, he has resorted to rhetoric that either conceals or distorts the truth. This has taken two characteristic forms: a rhetoric that is so vague and/or complex that it constitutes a form of lying; and apparently deliberate lying. If lying is occasionally permissible and necessary for the president, then what is wrong with President Clinton's version of presidential lying? The main problem, again, is that deceitfulness lies closer to the core of President Clinton's presentation of himself and his program than necessity requires or probity permits.

The rhetorical centerpiece of President Clinton's campaign was "Change." It may be that the American public was uneasy about the soundness of the economy and President Bush's ability to fashion or administer suitable policies to address the nation's economic woes. It may also be that the end of the Cold War suggested the necessity of a new set of priorities in American foreign policy. Also, the apparent inability of the Republican administration and Democratic Congress to restrain the growth of the federal deficit generated enough disaffection with the status quo to open the door to Ross Perot's serious third-candidate challenge. But aside from several specific criticisms levies against President Bush's administration, the major thrust of what candidate Clinton was offering the country was "change," repeated frequently enough to make the transition from slogan to mantra. Other than giving expression to the prevailing unease or discontent, what did "change" reveal about the probable direction of the country under a potential Clinton administration, or about the content of Democratic ideology which might guide him? The core of Governor Clinton's strategy was to dodge content sufficiently so as to avoid the charge of being too "liberal." Looking at Michael Dukakis's defeat in 1988, Mr. Clinton may have concluded that American's discontent with President Bush may not necessarily have signaled a rejection on their part of the ideology that had kept Republicans in the presidency for over a decade and a readiness to embrace an activist Democratic national agenda. "Change" offered something different, but not something discernibly different.

The major initiatives offered by President Clinton since he assumed office—deficit reduction and health care reform—have been shrouded in the same kind of vagueness as his campaign. The thrust of the president's budget plan, aside from some specific taxing proposals that were abandoned during the process of Congressional negotiation, was bland declamation about equal spending cuts and tax increases.

Complexity may distort and conceal as effectively as vagueness. The process of the formation of President Clinton's health care reform proposal (under conditions approximating a national security crisis), let alone its content, suggest an attempt to fashion policy so complex that it defies explanation and resists criticism. True, President Clinton has stated what appears to be a broad principle underlying his proposal (universal coverage with no real increase in federal spending). The plan in so multifarious, however, that it is almost impossible for the public to see it as an embodiment of that simple principle. One could say in defense of the president that his plan is complex because the issue is complex, and that no other available simpler option (such as Canada's "single-payer plan") avoids insurmountable objections. But one could just as easily argue that the plan's complexity stems from the necessity of concealing the genuine scope of the changes proposed, their costs and their consequences for the public.

Governor Clinton campaigning for the presidency repeatedly called for a "middle-class tax cut." President Clinton hastily abandoned the idea. Vice-President Bush campaigning in 1988 promised no new taxes. President Bush in 1990 signed one of the largest tax increases in United States history. Is there a difference? In the extent that there is a difference between changing one's mind and lying, then there is a difference between these two "discrepancies" between campaigning and governing. The rationale for President Clinton abandoning a major aspect of his proposed plan for middle-class tax relief was that he did not know until he occupied the presidency how serious the deficit would be. If he had not repeatedly during the campaign, however, declaimed on the seriousness of the deficit, occasionally estimating its potential growth far in excess of what became the basis of his budget plan, one would be inclined to accept this rational more seriously. Admittedly, moralizing about the "inaccuracies" uttered in the course of campaigning may seem a little precious, since this appears to be intrinsic to campaigning in America. But there is a difference between prudential shifts in policy, even occasionally exaggerated campaign polemics, and an extensive ruse to offset fears of tax increases. During his tenure in office, President Clinton has repeatedly demonstrated the same willingness to resort to deceit for policy purposes. Concealing tax increases as spending cuts (Medicare cost shifting), scapegoating pharmaceutical companies for rising medical costs, or obscuring the number of Americans who are likely to pay higher costs for health care, all suggest a pattern of indifference to truth which far outweighs the importance of, say, concealing the truth about extra-marital affairs.

If this characterization of President Clinton's rhetorical tendencies is correct, what explains it? Character may be part of it, although one should be slow to accuse anyone of endemic hypocrisy. The apparent evasions, inconsistencies and obscurities in President Clinton's public demeanor may derive from simple confusion stemming from embracing too many different kinds of policies, or as with health care reform, attempting to put together a package of reforms that tries to address as many potential criticisms as possible. Perhaps President Clinton does not believe in the rhetorical component of policy-making or the necessity of public explanation. More likely, President Clinton is caught between two sets of tensions generated by two different groups: Democrats and the American people. In order to maintain his governing base within the Democratic party, President Clinton must negotiate between the more activist or "progressive" wing of his party and its moderate center, of which he has presented himself as something of a spokesman. Although both of these groups wear the label "Democrat," they have somewhat different policy aims and views of the proper scope and activity of the national government. Trying to hold together contending factions in his party may incline him to verbal appeasement or vague rationalizations (and policies). When he has been most straightforward in advocating a policy, as with NAFTA, he has openly embraced the alienation of major components of his Democratic coalition.

The other group with whom President Clinton must deal is the American people. He probably senses the ambivalence that many—perhaps most—Americans feel towards many of his initiatives, even the initiatives of a centrist Democrat. Attempting to give vent to their worries, while not closing off his political flexibility by actually suggesting a clear policy to overcome the conditions that may be generating the worries, he has resorted (as we saw above) to vague bromides such as "change" that say everything and nothing at the same time.

If he persists in this emergent pattern, his ability to summon public support—translating into Congressional support—may dwindle, rendering his presidency increasingly impotent. One can resort too frequently and too trustingly to the "oracle" of presidential "approval ratings," but they are a barometer of some elusive quality of public confidence in the trustability, if not the competence, of the president. The outlook at the end of President Clinton's first year is not encouraging. Too, the acid effects of cheapened presidential rhetoric by President Clinton may extend into subsequent administrations. Might the presidency as the "vital center of action" be rendered less powerful, less capable to deal with the exigencies of the nation because an enduring sense of distrust will have crept into the public's view of the office? Last, the already significant sense of alienation of the part of many Americans (the nearly twenty percent of the electorate that voted for Ross Perot in 1992?) from the public institutions of American political life may be intensified if President Clinton continues to resort to presidential rhetoric as a cloaking device for his policies.

What should he do? First, it is important to recollect that President Clinton possesses considerable political skills, in the best sense of the word. The capacity to negotiate and compromise with opponents, native intelligence, and an ability to construct coalitions over contentious issues—all of these are valuable talents. He could use these talents to offer simpler and clearer policies, genuinely intended, with clearer and more straightforward rationales attached. Also, he could offer actual policies, rather than general policy dispositions. As mentioned, an example of the latter is his budget package, in reality worked out between Congressional leaders, supposedly under the rubric of a few presidential principles tossed in by Mr. Clinton. Yet, as mentioned above, he appeared to offer real leadership in prosecuting the cause of NAFTA—a real policy, controversial as it was. The president appeared capable of summoning real arguments and engaging in substantive debate. Now, in order to do this, he may have to relinquish attempting to appease all and sundry factions in his party—as he was willing to do with NAFTA—and forge a governing coalition with his partisan opponents. But, at least in doing so, he appeared to be a forceful leader arguing passionately and compellingly—and honestly—for a distinct policy. He may have generated some political enemies and lost some of his traditional Democratic support. But what he gained in the apprehension of the general public may probably outweigh those losses.

Charity demands that we be patient with learners. We do not know, only one year into President Clinton's presidency, whether, and how much of, his missteps may be attributable to amateurism or what may derive from character defects or even from a defective view of his office. Therefore, he deserves a certain amount of indulgence before final judgment. Too, his prior record in office suggests the ability to overcome his defects. If it, however, dangerous to generalize from prior experience, simply because the demands of the presidency are different in kind from the challenges that Clinton has previously faced. Perhaps boyish charm laced with Rhodes-scholar intellectualism and rural Southernisms was sufficient to negotiate his personal and political collisions with the truth while Bill Clinton was governor of Arkansas, and even to propel him over media and voter scrutiny during the arduous but jaunty process of campaigning for the presidency. But we want more prudence—more capacity—when a man is occupying the greatest office leading the greatest people of the greatest contemporary nation.

Aristotle teaches us to search for the virtuous mean between the vicious extremes. Somewhere between Jimmy Carter's democratic earnestness and Bill Clinton's democratic deceptiveness lies prudent republican leadership. If Bill Clinton refuses to learn that lesson, he may indeed discover the American people's likely preference for a Republican mean between two Democratic extremes.