As presidents go, Coolidge hasn’t gotten a lot of ink from historians. Sure, there are some biographies out there — and Amity’s in the works, of course. But for the most part, the literature is pretty thin. Among 20th century presidents, only Warren Harding can give Coolidge a run for his money in the “unexamined life” category.

The relative paucity of the Coolidge historiography extends beyond books to articles. But there have been at several important efforts to coordinate new Coolidge scholarship, including conferences at the Kennedy presidential library (papers here at the Calvin Coolidge Memorial Foundation) and a 1995 symposium at the Library of Congress (papers published in 1998 but out of print now).

Coolidge buffs are well familiar with these essays, but I thought it might be useful to highlight them for people not in the know already. The Library of Congress volume is especially had to find. Or even turn up on a Google search unless you know what you’re after.

It’s important to point out that the most sustained effort to encourage Coolidge scholarship has come from the Calvin Coolidge Memorial Foundation. They keep the flame alive.

In a recent column for the Washington Examiner, Gene Healy of the Cato Institute suggests that Barack Obama could learn a thing or two from Calvin Coolidge. In particular, the president might take a lesson from from Silent Cal’s modesty.

Calvin Coolidge, a genuinely humble man and a fine president, wrote in his autobiography that it was “a major source of safety to the country” for the president “to know that he is not a great man.”

Healy’s got a point, albeit one suffused with a dollop of wishful thinking. Yes, it would be nice of modern presidents weren’t consumed by their own grandeur.  But were their predecessors ever really so humble?

I might buy the argument that George Washington was humble. After all, not many men turn down an offer to be king. But then again, Washington didn’t either.

Still, Washington had an appreciation for both opportunity and responsibility. He knew when it was time to step up, but he also knew when it was time to step down. That’s a fine thing, and every one of his successors — save one  – has followed his lead.

But that doesn’t mean Washington was humble. Indeed, plenty of evidence suggests that his character included plenty of vanity and ambition. And I think it’s fair to say that every other president has been similarly infused with a keen appreciation of his own self-worth.

Which brings us back to Coolidge. Was he really humble? Well, maybe. Certainly, his governing style suggests that he didn’t consider himself indispensable to any situation.

But Coolidge was also a deeply ambitious politician who managed his career and public image with the utmost care. His was not an accidental presidency, either in origin or execution. The “Silent Cal” trope captures something important about Coolidge, but it also obscures his goals, ambition, and skill.

Coolidge, I think, believed deeply in his own capacity and character. I think he yearned to be president and did what was necessary to win — and keep — the job.

What’s striking about Coolidge is not his humility, but his respect for things larger than himself. Coolidge had faith in Coolidge, but he also had faith in America, its people, and its political institutions. In that sense, I think the title of his campaign book, Have Faith in Massachusetts, is revealing. Deep down, I think Coolidge believed he was a great man — or at least a pretty damn impressive one. But he believed that America was much greater.

So readers: tell me what you think? Was Coolidge humble?

Joe’s point about the policemen is something I tried to capture in my Coolidge article, but did it inadequately. This is the great tension of all such battles. The Boston police were right. They were underpaid. What one might call the “hard-ass-ness” of Curtis, what we call being like Scrooge, is what always makes conservatives look bad. Sometimes deservedly so.

Back in September, when I was blogging about the Boston police strike, I meant to post something about Dennis Lehane’s historical novel, The Given Day. The book tells the story of several characters living in Boston at the time of the strike, including a well-connected young policeman, Danny Coughlin.

As a work of historical fiction, The Given Day is really quite extraordinary. Lehane has a remarkable gift for period detail and dialog — no small thing, given the propensity to exaggerate Irish accents in almost every fictional treatment of the city. Lehane does a truly fine job of bringing early 20th century Boston to life.

The book also makes a passionate argument on behalf of the strikers. Generally speaking, Lehane portrays city and state officials as hapless, venal, uncaring, heartless, and incompetent. Coolidge makes a few brief cameos, never to much effect, but his role remains implicitly central as Lehane crafts his ringing indictment of police commissioner Edwin Upton Curtis.

In her review of Lehane’s book, Janet Maslin drew attention to its depiction of Curtis:

“The Given Day” creates a particularly chilling portrait of Boston’s police commissioner, Edwin Upton Curtis, as a dangerous has-been with no regard for the safety, dignity or vulnerability of his cops.

That’s a fair assessment of Lehane’s treatment of Curtis, and to my mind, a fair assessment of Curtis, too. The police strike was avoidable, as almost everyone involved (including Coolidge) was well aware. But rather than trying to defuse the situation, Curtis made it worse.

The Boston police had a long list of legitimate grievances, including scandalously low pay and poor working conditions (as Amity noted in her recent Forbes article). The patrolmen, loosely organized as the Boston Social Club, had been negotiating with city officials for years. In return, they got a series of excuses and half-met promises.

To be fair, city officials were struggling with chronically tight budgets and dysfunctional political institutions — not to mention the economic upheaval of World War I.  But the hard fact remains: Boston cops had been treated shabbily for years.

Many city and civic leaders were aware that something had to be done. Even as the prospect of a strike loomed large in the summer of 1919, hopes for a compromise ran high. But Curtis showed scant interest in finding common ground. Eager to assert his authority, he seemed intent on confrontation.

Once the police had crossed their Rubicon and begun the strike, different issues were in play. Coolidge had  was determined to establish the primacy of law, order, and political authority. But we can admire his stand and still lament the need for it. The Boston police strike was an avoidable tragedy. The blame for it must be shared by the strikers (who played fast and loose with the public’s right to safety) and city officials (who refused to address complaints that even they acknowledged to be legitimate).