I owe a lot to Dr. James McHenry.

No, he’s not my doctor. He’s not my professor, either. He’s not even my preacher.

He’s, well, a Marylander.

And he’s cool enough to have gotten an invite to the coolest party in town.

He even took notes — I know, because I’ve read them.

(Parts, anyway.)

You see, Dear Reader, Dr. James McHenry wasn’t just any Marylander; he was one of five to have represented the Old Line State at the Constitutional Convention in 1787.

This, obviously, was an experience that the good doctor knew he would never forget — but one, too, that he wanted the whole world to remember.

So, as I begin to write this, the one more column I get to write before Cornell gives this cowboy the giddyup on his way out the door, my first tip of the Stetson goes to none other than the late Dr. McHenry, who — on the final day he and his fellow demigods would spend in session at the convention — documented the discussion that first inspired me to pick up the pen.

On the way out of Independence Hall, McHenry wrote, “a lady asked Dr. Franklin” — yes, that Dr. Franklin — “well, Doctor, what have we got — a republic or a monarchy?

“ ‘A republic,’ replied the Doctor, ‘if you can keep it.’ ”

A republic, Cornell, if we can keep it.

It is hard, writing this column, to know where to start — what to say, who to thank, how to begin and how to end.

This is the end, after all, not only of our time together here but, for me, of my entire Cornell career.

How do I say goodbye?

There is, I think, ultimately no better example to follow than that of the person to whom goes my second tip of the Stetson: yep, Richard Saunders, the Richard of Poor Richard’s Almanack.

Saunders — a.k.a. Benjamin Franklin — was, of course, speaking to more than a single Philadelphian when he said that the nation whose government he helped forge over a hot summer in the City of Brotherly Love would only remain a republic so long as each and every of his fellow Americans worked to keep it that way.

He was speaking to all of us, then and now.

I have tried, throughout each of my columns these past two years, directly and indirectly, to help you — and, in the process, myself — better understand exactly what Franklin meant.

How, after all, do we keep a republic?

It’s a tough question; even today, I’m still searching for the answer.

I have, over the years, been able to piece together certain parts, but only with a lot of help along the way.

My parents taught me what you need to know to start. You need, first and foremost, a good head and a good heart, and you have to have the courage to use them. One does you no good without the other, they showed me, and I know no two people who were so blessed with both.

(Thus, tip of the Stetson #3.)

A good head, needless to say, takes work; a good heart takes more.

Read all you can, here and everywhere, about anything and everything. Stay informed. Ask before you’re told. Find out not only what’s going on today, but what went on yesterday — the day before that — the week before that — the month before that — and the year before that. Learn your history. Pay attention to politics. Discuss it all. Debate it all. Discover your country — and who you are — as you go.

This, at least, gets you halfway; it’s the second half that’s killer.

There are many paths to a good heart, but you know better than I what you need to do to get there. Each of us ends up taking a different path; the important thing is that you take the right one when you come to it. Listen to your conscience — and never get too caught up in yourself or in the things of the world that you can’t hear it. Your head is important, but it’s your heart that dictates how you use it. Get your heart right, then, and your head will follow.

The biggest part of keeping a republic, as Poor Richard would no doubt have put it, is in keeping yourself — in keeping a healthy body and a healthy mind, in challenging yourself, in fighting for what you believe in but never being afraid to grow along the way.

No matter how right we think we are, that is, we must always, always, always be willing to consider the possibility that we are wrong.

This, like I said, doesn’t mean that we don’t battle for our beliefs; to the contrary, the battle is very often the point.

“He that wrestles with us,” Burke wrote, “strengthens our nerves, and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper. This amicable conflict with difficulty helps us to an intimate acquaintance with our object, and compels us to consider it in all its relations. It will not suffer us to be superficial.”

Important to remember is that he said amicable conflict. This, as my friend Ben Birnbaum pointed out on Tuesday, is something that — particularly for those of us in love with politics — is all-too-easy to forget.

Still, stay in the fight, republicans; it’s too important not to.

My journey at Cornell may soon be ending, but my journey as a citizen is — like yours — only just beginning.

Here, then, is a final tip of the Stetson to all the people on campus who made the former journey so wonderful and, at the same time, helped me get a good start on the latter — a tip meant also for my Julia, who, I pray, will be with me to the end of it.

I hope that I taught y’all something.

I hope, too, that you know just how much you taught me.

Mark Coombs is a senior. He can be contacted at mcoombs@cornellsun.com. If You Can Keep It appeared alternate Fridays this semester.