ship of President Roosevelt, the result of which was to transform
democracy from a static to a pragmatic and evolutionary conception,--in
order to meet and correct new and unforeseen evils. Political freedom
was seen to be of little worth unless also accompanied by the economic
freedom the nation had enjoyed before the advent of industrialism.
Clerks and farmers, professional men and shopkeepers and artisans were
ready to follow the liberal leaders in states and nation; intellectual
elements from colleges and universities were enlisted. Paralleling
the movement, at times mingling with it, was the revolt of labour,
manifested not only in political action, but in strikes and violence.
Readily accessible books and magazines together with club and forum
lectures in cities, towns, and villages were rapidly educating the
population in social science, and the result was a growing independent
vote to make politicians despair.

Here was an instance of a democratic culture growing in
isolation, resentful of all external interference. To millions of
Americans--especially in our middle western and western states--bent
upon social reforms, the European War appeared as an arresting
influence. American participation meant the triumph of the forces
of reaction. Colour was lent to this belief because the conservative
element which had opposed social reforms was loudest in its demand for
intervention. The wealthy and travelled classes organized preparedness
parades and distributed propaganda. In short, those who had apparently
done their utmost to oppose democracy at home were most insistent that
we should embark upon a war for democracy across the seas. Again, what
kind of democracy? Obviously a status quo, commercially imperialistic
democracy, which the awakening liberal was bent upon abolishing.

There is undoubtedly in such an office as the American presidency
some virtue which, in times of crisis, inspires in capable men an
intellectual and moral growth proportional to developing events.
Lincoln, our most striking example, grew more between 1861 and 1865
than during all the earlier years of his life. Nor is the growth of
democratic leaders, when seen through the distorted passions of
their day, apparently a consistent thing. Greatness, near at hand, is
startlingly like inconsistency; it seems at moments to vacillate, to
turn back upon and deny itself, and thus lays itself open to seemingly
plausible criticism by politicians and tim