Abstract
FEW LIBRARIANS, one imagines, will be feeling as sorry for President Nixon as Bernard Levin is. (Though no‐one would wish the President to be ill at this time.) It is always saddening when Levin, nurtured on Leigh Hunt, Lamb, Hazlitt and Coleridge, turns his talents from marvellously funny pieces on rabbits and rhubarb, the law, motor cars and Wagner, to arrogant, arrant political nonsense pieces—not to mention Public Lending Right. Having supported the President through the perils of Vietnam and two election campaigns, he could hardly turn back at a mere Watergate.
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