During a decade the old political parties, between which there was now little more than an artificial alignment, had been breaking up.  Americans were absorbed in the great liberal movement begun under the leadership 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 time servers and all who cry out for precedent.  Yet it is an interesting and encouraging fact that the faith of democratic peoples goes out, and goes out alone, to leaders who—­whatever their minor faults and failings —­do not fear to reverse themselves when occasion demands; to enunciate new doctrines, seemingly in contradiction to former assertions, to meet new crises.  When a democratic leader who has given evidence of greatness ceases to develop new ideas, he loses the public confidence.  He flops back into the ranks of the conservative he formerly opposed, who catch up with him only when he ceases to grow.