My reading of history convinces me that most bad government has

Host: The night was heavy, steeped in silence and smoke, as if the city itself were holding its breath. The Capitol dome rose in the distance like a ghost, its marble catching the faintest glow of a dying moon. Inside a forgotten library bar, the walls were lined with old books — their spines cracked, their titles fading, their truths still burning.

Host: Jack sat at the far corner, his sleeves rolled up, his hands stained faintly with ink — a man who had been writing, thinking, maybe arguing with the past. Jeeny sat across from him, her notebook open, her eyes alive with that restless glow of someone who still believed ideas could save the world.

Host: Between them lay an old newspaper clipping, yellowed and torn, the headline quoting John Sharp Williams:
“My reading of history convinces me that most bad government has grown out of too much government.”

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp as a blade in velvet, “do you think that’s true? That too much government — not corruption, not apathy, not greed — is what makes a nation sick?”

Jack: “I don’t just think it,” he said, leaning back, his grey eyes catching the dim light, “I know it. Power breeds dependency, Jeeny. The more a government tries to do, the more it has to control. Every time it steps in to solve a problem, it ends up creating three more.”

Host: His voice was like a slow drumbeat, calm but unrelenting. The sound of rain tapped lightly on the window, steady as a clock.

Jeeny: “So what then?” she asked, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “We just let people fend for themselves? Let the strong survive and the weak fade out? That’s not freedom, Jack — that’s neglect dressed in patriotism.”

Jack: “It’s realism,” he said, his tone flat, almost cold. “Every time a government promises to care for everyone, it has to decide who deserves the care — and who doesn’t. It starts by protecting, and ends by policing. That’s how good intentions become bad governments.”

Host: The light flickered. Somewhere, an old record player crackled to life, whispering the tune of a long-forgotten jazz song — sweet, sad, and slow. Jeeny looked at Jack, her expression softening, though her words did not.

Jeeny: “You’re talking like a man who’s been burned by the idea of help, not the reality of it. History’s full of tyranny, yes — but it’s also full of failure where governments didn’t do enough. The Depression, the Dust Bowl, the pandemics — when people cried out for leadership, what would you have done? Told them to tough it out?”

Jack: “Maybe I’d tell them to trust themselves,” he said, his jaw tightening. “Every time people wait for government to save them, they forget how to fight for themselves. That’s the trade — comfort for courage. And once you give that up, you never get it back.”

Host: The thunder outside rolled, low and mournful, like a drum calling to a distant army. Jeeny’s voice rose, not loud, but trembling with heat.

Jeeny: “You make it sound so simple. But it’s not. People aren’t machines, Jack. They can’t just self-correct when they’re broken. Sometimes the only thing between them and starvation, or disease, or war, is that same government you despise.”

Jack: “And yet it’s that same government that starts the wars, that profits from the diseases, that feeds the poverty it claims to cure. Look at history, Jeeny — Rome, Britain, the Soviet Union. Every empire fell not because they lacked order, but because they had too damn much of it.”

Host: The storm had begun to pound now, sheets of rain sliding down the window like tears. The candle between them wavered, throwing their faces into shifting light — his hard, hers luminous.

Jeeny: “And yet you still live under the flag, still drive on the roads, still use the rights that same ‘too much’ government built. You can’t curse the system with one hand and drink its water with the other.”

Jack: “And you can’t worship it like a god and still call yourself free,” he snapped.

Host: The room fell silent — only the rain, the jazz, and the slow breathing of two people caught between belief and fatigue.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about worship,” she said finally. “Maybe it’s about responsibility. Maybe we’ve built governments that are too big because people have become too small — too busy, too afraid, too distracted to govern themselves.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the curse of our age — people wanting to be protected from the consequences of their own freedom.”

Host: The lightning flashed again, reflecting in their eyes — two sparks, opposite and equal.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack. Do you think there’s such a thing as good government at all?”

Jack: “Of course,” he said after a long pause, his voice softer now. “But it’s not about how much it does — it’s about how much it restrains itself from doing. The best government is the one that knows when to stop.”

Jeeny: “And the worst?”

Jack: “The one that believes it can fix everything.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she closed the notebook. The storm outside had begun to quiet, leaving behind the slow drip of water from the roof.

Jeeny: “Maybe the answer’s not less government or more, but better people. A society that doesn’t need to be ruled so much because it actually cares for itself.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, watching her. “But that would mean learning how to be responsible for our own failures, not just our freedoms.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now, the city lights beyond the window reflected in a thousand tiny puddles. The music drifted to a close, a single note hanging in the air like a question unanswered.

Host: Jack reached for his glass, but didn’t drink. Jeeny’s gaze lingered on him, softening into something almost tender — a kind of quiet respect for the stubbornness that mirrors one’s own.

Jeeny: “You know,” she said, her smile faint but warm, “for someone who doesn’t trust government, you sound a lot like one trying to protect people from it.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, his eyes drifting toward the window, where the first hint of dawn was bleeding through the clouds. “Or maybe I just don’t want us to forget that power, no matter how noble, always starts by saying it’s here to help.”

Host: Outside, the rain had given way to light. The city was waking — cars starting, sirens wailing, the slow heartbeat of civilization resuming. Inside, the candle burned low, and between its last two flames, Jack and Jeeny sat — not in agreement, but in balance.

Host: And as the sun rose over the Capitol, the quote on the table — Van Buren’s ink-stained warning — seemed to glow with quiet irony, whispering through the ages:

Too much power in any hand, even the kindest one, will always forget how light it once meant to be.