THE PRESIDENCY: The Anvil of Office

Harry Truman's hair had turned almost white in the past year, and the lines in his face had deepened. His wrinkle-cheeked grin was still to be seen, but at times it seemed forced and perfunctory. During the past month the President's physician, Brigadier General Wallace Graham, began watching him a little anxiously—the Korean crisis and the death of the President's old friend and press secretary, Charlie Ross, had hit Harry Truman hard, and he showed it. Last week Graham put his patient through a complete and detailed physical checkup.

The President had shown occasional signs of nervous strain, mainly by a growing habit of tapping his foot during moments of tension—and also by getting off the intemperate letters which Presidents might write but don't usually post. He was having some minor tooth trouble which called for new fillings. He was working late at night, and after the checkup—although he still sleeps like a log—Dr. Graham asked him to cut out his early morning exercise (a two-mile walk, a swim, a rubdown) on two days of the week, in order to get more rest.

Dinner on the Hill. The President's weight was about right (175), and Graham insisted that the President was in better condition than 90% of men of his age (66).

He had to be, for the kind of days he was putting in. Last week he received scores of callers, many of them retiring lame-duck Congressmen. One evening, heavily guarded by Secret Service men, he rode up to Capitol Hill for a dinner honoring two key Democrats who had been defeated at the polls:Majority Leader Scott Lucas of Illinois and Party Whip Francis Myers of Pennsylvania. "I have learned," Harry Truman told the assembled lame ducks, "that if you stick around in public life long enough, defeat is certain."

Home for the Holidays. At week's end, the President flew home to Missouri (in June, when he was visiting the family's big, white, old clapboard house in Independence, the Communists had marched across the 38th parallel). His social schedule was so crowded that, as he put it, "it's almost like my day after day in Washington. But I like it, because it's home." He showed up at a Masonic dinner in Kansas City's Muehlebach Hotel, and found himself involved in a good-natured disagreement. It was set off by his old friend and political enemy, roly Republican Roy Roberts, president and general manager of the Kansas City Star.

The American people, Roberts said, were confused by the goings-on in Washington, but would realize, under the pressure of events, that a "closing of ranks" was necessary.

The President rose, obviously a little nettled. "I want to say to you that it is my opinion that the country is not confused," he replied. "The country has been amply advised as to what is going on. I think it is the confusers, Roy, that are confused, not the country or the people. The American people are willing to make all the sacrifices that are necessary to meet the situation with which we are faced."

Last week the President also: