Reagan at the Drake

At this 19th annual meeting of the Philadelphia Society, the participants talked about many things, and the members and guests chatted convivially in the corridors and lounges, but under it all there was only one real issue, an issue often out of sight, like some huge political Moby Dick swimming under water but occasionally breaking through the surface to shower everyone with spray. This issue was Ronald Reagan, what he has done and what he hasn’t done. You did not have to be especially sensitive to feel the presence of a crystallizing anger, serious but also civil. The political drama of the meeting thus consisted of the ability of the pro-Reagan speakers, principally Ed Meese and Dick Allen, but also a startlingly brilliant young Englishman I had not known of named Stephen Haseler, to overwhelm the muttering revolt. The anti-Reagan Pickett’s charge was pawing the turf, ready to go, but the heavy intellectual artillery opened up—and prevailed, this time.

There is nothing wrong with Chicago’s Drake Hotel except that it seems to be twenty miles and certainly twenty dollars from O’Hare International Airport, a facility its own press agent would have to call controlled chaos, but which seems to me a Chinese fire drill. Once inside the dark-paneled elegance of the Drake, however, I found all to be civilized; indeed, 1 was not once tempted to venture out into the chilly streets of Mayor Washington’s city. The Drake, at least, is very good.

About the Author

Jeffrey Hart

Jeffrey Hart is a contributor to National Review.

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At this 19th annual meeting of the Philadelphia Society, the participants talked about many things, and the members and guests chatted convivially in the corridors and lounges, but under it all there was only one real issue, an issue often out of sight, like some huge political Moby Dick swimming under water but occasionally breaking through the surface to shower everyone with spray. This issue was Ronald Reagan, what he has done and what he hasn’t done. You did not have to be especially sensitive to feel the presence of a crystallizing anger, serious but also civil. The political drama of the meeting thus consisted of the ability of the pro-Reagan speakers, principally Ed Meese and Dick Allen, but also a startlingly brilliant young Englishman I had not known of named Stephen Haseler, to overwhelm the muttering revolt. The anti-Reagan Pickett’s charge was pawing the turf, ready to go, but the heavy intellectual artillery opened up—and prevailed, this time.

There is nothing wrong with Chicago’s Drake Hotel except that it seems to be twenty miles and certainly twenty dollars from O’Hare International Airport, a facility its own press agent would have to call controlled chaos, but which seems to me a Chinese fire drill. Once inside the dark-paneled elegance of the Drake, however, I found all to be civilized; indeed, 1 was not once tempted to venture out into the chilly streets of Mayor Washington’s city. The Drake, at least, is very good.