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AN ESSAY ON THE AMERICAN CONTRIBUTION AND THE DEMOCRATIC IDEA
By Winston Churchill
Failure to recognize that the American, is at heart an idealist is to
lack understanding of our national character. Two of our greatest
interpreters proclaimed it, Emerson and William James. In a recent
address at the Paris Sorbonne on "American Idealism," M. Firmin Roz
observed that a people is rarely justly estimated by its contemporaries.
The French, he says, have been celebrated chiefly for the skill of their
chefs and their vaudeville actors, while in the disturbed 'speculum
mundi' Americans have appeared as a collection of money grabbers whose
philosophy is the dollar. It remained for the war to reveal the true
nature of both peoples. The American colonists, M. Roz continues, unlike
other colonists, were animated not by material motives, but by the desire
to safeguard and realize an ideal; our inherent characteristic today is a
belief in the virtue and power of ideas, of a national, indeed, of a
universal, mission. In the Eighteenth Century we proposed a Philosophy
and adopted a Constitution far in advance of the political practice of
the day, and set up a government of which Europe predicted the early
downfall. Nevertheless, thanks partly to good fortune, and to the
farseeing wisdom of our early statesmen who perceived that the success
of our experiment depended upon the maintenance of an isolation from
European affairs, we established democracy as a practical form of
government.
We have not always lived up to our beliefs in ideas. In our dealings
with other nations, we yielded often to imperialistic ambitions and thus,
to a certain extent, justified the cynicism of Europe. We took what we
wanted--and more. From Spain we seized western Florida; the annexation
of Texas and the subsequent war with Mexico are acts upon which we cannot
look back with unmixed democratic pride; while more than once we
professed a naive willingness to fight England in order to push our
boundaries further north. We regarded the Monroe Doctrine as altruistic,
while others smiled. But it suited England, and her sea power gave it
force.
Our war with Spain in 1898, however, was fought for an idea, and,
despite the imperialistic impulse that followed it, marks a transition,
an advance, in international ethics. Imperialistic cynics were not
lacking to scoff at our protestation that we were fighting Spain in order
to liberate Cuba; and yet this, for the American people at large, was
undoubtedly the inspiration of the war. We kept our promise, we did not
annex Cuba, we introduced into international affairs what is known as the
Big Brother idea. Then came the Platt Amendment. Cuba was free, but she
must not wallow near our shores in an unhygienic state, or borrow money
without our consent. We acquired valuable naval bases. Moreover, the
sudden and unexpected acquisition of Porto Rico and the Philippines made
us imperialists in spite of ourselves.
Nations as well as individuals, however, must be judged by their
intentions. The sound public opinion of our people has undoubtedly
remained in favour of ultimate self-government for the Philippines, and
the greatest measure of self-determination for little Porto Rico; it has
been unquestionably opposed to commercial exploitation of the islands,
desirous of yielding to these peoples the fruits of their labour in
developing the resources of their own lands. An intention, by the way,
diametrically different from that of Germany. In regard to our
protectorate in the island of San Domingo, our "semi-protectorate" in
Nicaragua, the same argument of intention may fairly be urged. Germany,
who desired them, would have exploited them. To a certain extent, no
doubt, as a result of the momentum of commercial imperialism, we are
still exploiting them. But the attitude of the majority of Americans
toward more backward peoples is not cynical; hence there is hope that a
democratic solution of the Caribbean and Central American problem may be
found. And we are not ready, as yet, to accept without further
experiment the dogma that tropical and sub-tropical people will not
ultimately be able to govern themselves. If this eventually, prove to be
the case at least some such experiment as the new British Labour Party
has proposed for the Empire may be tried. Our general theory that the
exploitation of foreign peoples reacts unfavourably on the exploiters is
undoubtedly sound.
Nor are the ethics of the manner of our acquisition of a part of Panama
and the Canal wholly defensible from the point of view of international
democracy. Yet it must be remembered that President Roosevelt was
dealing with a corrupt, irresponsible, and hostile government, and that
the Canal had become a necessity not only for our own development, but
for that of the civilization of the world.
The Spanish War, as has been said, marked a transition, a development of
the American Idea. In obedience to a growing perception that dominion
and exploitation are incompatible with and detrimental to our system of
government, we fought in good faith to gain self-determination for an
alien people. The only real peril confronting democracy is the arrest
of growth. Its true conquests are in the realms of ideas, and hence it
calls for a statesmanship which, while not breaking with the past, while
taking into account the inherent nature of a people, is able to deal
creatively with new situations--always under the guidance of current
social science.
Woodrow Wilson's Mexican policy, being a projection of the American Idea
to foreign affairs, a step toward international democracy, marks the
beginning of a new era. Though not wholly understood, though opposed by
a powerful minority of our citizens, it stirred the consciousness of a
national mission to which our people are invariably ready to respond.
Since it was essentially experimental, and therefore not lacking in
mistakes, there was ample opportunity for a criticism that seemed at
times extremely plausible. The old and tried method of dealing with such
anarchy as existed across our southern border was made to seem the safe
one; while the new, because it was untried, was presented as disastrous.
In reality, the reverse was the case.
Mr. Wilson's opponents were, generally speaking, the commercial classes
in the community, whose environment and training led them to demand a
foreign policy similar to that of other great powers, a financial
imperialism which is the logical counterpart in foreign affairs of the
commercial exploitation of domestic national resources and domestic
labour. These were the classes which combated the growth of democracy at
home, in national and state politics. From their point of view--not that
of the larger vision--they were consistent. On the other hand, the
nation grasped the fact that to have one brand of democracy at home and
another for dealing with foreign nations was not only illogical but, in
the long run, would be suicidal to the Republic. And the people at large
were committed to democratic progress at home. They were struggling for
it.
One of the most important issues of the American liberal movement early
in this century had been that for the conservation of what remains of our
natural resources of coal and metals and oil and timber and waterpower
for the benefit of all the people, on the theory that these are the
property of the people. But if the natural resources of this country
belong to the people of the United States, those of Mexico belong to the
people of Mexico. It makes no difference how "lazy," ignorant, and
indifferent to their own interests the Mexicans at present may be. And
even more important in these liberal campaigns was the issue of the
conservation of human resources--men and women and children who are
forced by necessity to labour. These must be protected in health, given
economic freedom and a just reward for their toil. The American
democracy, committed to the principle of the conservation of domestic
natural and human resources, could not without detriment to itself
persist in a foreign policy that ignored them. For many years our own
government had permitted the squandering of these resources by
adventurous capitalists; and gradually, as we became a rich industrial
nation, these capitalists sought profitable investments for their
increasing surplus in foreign lands. Their manner of acquiring
"concessions" in Mexico was quite similar to that by which they had
seized because of the indifference and ignorance of our own people--our
own mines and timber lands which our government held in trust. Sometimes
these American "concessions" have been valid in law though the law itself
violated a democratic principle; more often corrupt officials winked at
violations of the law, enabling capitalists to absorb bogus claims.
The various rulers of Mexico sold to American and other foreign
capitalists the resources belonging to the people of their country, and
pocketed, with their followers, the proceeds of the sale. Their control
of the country rested upon force; the stability of the Diaz rule, for
instance, depended upon the "President's" ability to maintain his
dictatorship--a precarious guarantee to the titles he had given. Hence
the premium on revolutions. There was always the incentive to the
upstart political and military buccaneer to overthrow the dictator and
gain possession of the spoils, to sell new doubtful concessions and levy
new tribute on the capitalists holding claims from a former tyrant.
The foreign capitalists appealed to their governments; commercial
imperialism responded by dispatching military forces to protect the lives
and "property" of its citizens, in some instances going so far as to take
possession of the country. A classic case, as cited by Hobson, is
Britain's South African War, in which the blood and treasure of the
people of the United Kingdom were expended because British capitalists
had found the Boers recalcitrant, bent on retaining their own country for
themselves. To be sure, South Africa, like Mexico is rich in resources
for which advancing civilization continually makes demands. And, in the
case of Mexico, the products of the tropics, such as rubber, are
increasingly necessary to the industrial powers of the temperate zone.
On the other hand, if the exploiting nation aspire to self-government,
the imperialistic method of obtaining these products by the selfish
exploitation of the natural and human resources of the backward countries
reacts so powerfully on the growth of democracy at home--and hence on the
growth of democracy throughout the world--as to threaten the very future
of civilization. The British Liberals, when they came into power,
perceived this, and at once did their best to make amends to South Africa
by granting her autonomy and virtual independence, linking her to Britain
by the silken thread of Anglo-Saxon democratic culture. How strong this
thread has proved is shown by the action of those of Dutch blood in the
Dominion during the present war.
Eventually, if democracy is not to perish from the face of the earth,
some other than the crude imperialistic method of dealing with backward
peoples, of obtaining for civilization the needed resources of their
lands, must be inaugurated--a democratic method. And this is perhaps the
supreme problem of democracy today. It demands for its solution a
complete reversal of the established policy of imperialism, a new theory
of international relationships, a mutual helpfulness and partnership
between nations, even as democracy implies cooperation between individual
citizens. Therefore President Wilson laid down the doctrine that
American citizens enter Mexico at their own risk; that they must not
expert that American blood will be shed or the nation's money be expended
to protect their lives or the "property" they have acquired from Mexican
dictators. This applies also to the small capitalists, the owners of the
coffee plantations, as well as to those Americans in Mexico who are not
capitalists but wage earners. The people of Mexico are entitled to try
the experiment of self-determination. It is an experiment, we frankly
acknowledge that fact, a democratic experiment dependent on physical
science, social science, and scientific education. The other horn of the
dilemma, our persistence in imperialism, is even worse--since by such
persistence we destroy ourselves.
A subjective judgment, in accordance with our own democratic standards,
by the American Government as to the methods employed by a Huerta, for
instance, is indeed demanded; not on the ground, however, that such
methods are "good" or "bad"; but whether they are detrimental to Mexican
self-determination, and hence to the progress of our own democracy.
II
If America had started to prepare when Belgium was invaded, had entered
the war when the Lusitania was sunk, Germany might by now have been
defeated, hundreds of thousands of lives might have been spared. All
this may be admitted. Yet, looking backward, it is easy to read the
reason for our hesitancy in our national character and traditions. We
were pacifists, yes, but pacifists of a peculiar kind. One of our
greatest American prophets, William James, knew that there was an issue
for which we were ready to fight, for which we were willing to make the
extreme sacrifice,--and that issue he defined as "war against war." It
remained for America to make the issue.
Peoples do not rush to arms unless their national existence is
threatened. It is what may be called the environmental cause that drives
nations quickly into war. It drove the Entente nations into war, though
incidentally they were struggling for certain democratic institutions,
for international justice. But in the case of America, the environmental
cause was absent. Whether or not our national existence was or is
actually threatened, the average American does not believe that it is.
He was called upon to abandon his tradition, to mingle in a European
conflict, to fight for an idea alone. Ideas require time to develop,
to seize the imagination of masses. And it must be remembered that in
1914 the great issue had not been defined. Curiously enough, now that it
is defined, it proves to be an American issue--a logical and positive
projection of our Washingtonian tradition and Monroe doctrine. These had
for their object the preservation and development of democracy, the
banishment from the Western Hemisphere of European imperialistic conflict
and war. We are now, with the help of our allies, striving to banish
these things from the face of the earth. It is undoubtedly the greatest
idea for which man has been summoned to make the supreme sacrifice.
Its evolution has been traced. Democracy was the issue in the Spanish
War, when we fought a weak nation. We have followed its broader
application to Mexico, when we were willing to ignore the taunts and
insults of another weak nation, even the loss of "prestige," for the sake
of the larger good. And we have now the clue to the President's
interpretation of the nation's mind during the first three years of the
present war. We were willing to bear the taunts and insults of Germany
so long as it appeared that a future world peace night best be brought
about by the preservation of neutrality, by turning the weight of the
impartial public opinion of our democracy and that of other neutrals
against militarism and imperialism. Our national aim was ever consistent
with the ideal of William James, to advance democracy and put an end to
the evil of war.
The only sufficient reason for the abandonment of the Washingtonian
policy is the furtherance of the object for which it was inaugurated, the
advance of democracy. And we had established the precedent, with Spain
and Mexico, that the Republic shall engage in no war of imperialistic
conquest. We war only in behalf of, or in defence of, democracy.
Before the entrance of America, however, the issues of the European
War were by no means clear cut along democratic lines. What kind of
democracy were the allies fighting for? Nowhere and at no time had it
been defined by any of their statesmen. On the contrary, the various
allied governments had entered into compacts for the transference of
territory in the event of victory; and had even, by the offer of rewards,
sought to play one small nation against another. This secret diplomacy
of bargains, of course, was a European heritage, the result of an
imperialistic environment which the American did not understand, and
from which he was happily free. Its effect on France is peculiarly
enlightening. The hostility of European governments, due to their fear
of her republican institutions, retarded her democratic growth, and her
history during the reign of Napoleon III is one of intrigue for
aggrandizement differing from Bismarck's only in the fact that it was
unsuccessful. Britain, because she was separated from the continent and
protected by her fleet, virtually withdrew from European affairs in the
latter part of the nineteenth century, and, as a result, made great
strides in democracy. The aggressions of Germany forced Britain in
self-defence into coalitions. Because of her power and wealth she became
the Entente leader, yet her liberal government was compelled to enter into
secret agreements with certain allied governments in order to satisfy
what they deemed to be their needs and just ambitions. She had honestly
sought, before the war, to come to terms with Germany, and had even
proposed gradual disarmament. But, despite the best intentions,
circumstances and environment, as well as the precarious situation of her
empire, prevented her from liberalizing her foreign relations to conform
with the growth of democracy within the United Kingdom and the Dominions.
Americans felt a profound pity for Belgium. But she was not, as Cuba had
been, our affair. The great majority of our citizens sympathized with
the Entente, regarded with amazement and disgust the sudden disclosure of
the true character of the German militaristic government. Yet for the
average American the war wore the complexion of other European conflicts,
was one involving a Balance of Power, mysterious and inexplicable. To
him the underlying issue was not democratic, but imperialistic; and this
was partly because he was unable to make a mental connection between a
European war and the brand of democracy he recognized. Preaching and
propaganda fail unless it can be brought home to a people that something
dear to their innermost nature is at stake, that the fate of the thing
they most desire, and are willing to make sacrifices for, hangs in the
balance.
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.
In 1916 the majority of the American people elected Mr. Wilson in the
belief that he would keep them out of war. In 1917 he entered the war
with the nation behind him. A recalcitrant Middle West was the first
to fill its quota of volunteers, and we witnessed the extraordinary
spectacle of the endorsement of conscription: What had happened? A very
simple, but a very great thing Mr. Wilson had made the issue of the war a
democratic issue, an American issue, in harmony with our national hopes
and traditions. But why could not this issue have been announced in 1914
or 1915? The answer seems to be that peoples, as well as their leaders
and interpreters, must grow to meet critical situations. In 1861 the,
moral idea of the Civil War was obscured and hidden by economic and
material interests. The Abraham Lincoln who entered the White House in
1881 was indeed the name man who signed the Emancipation Proclamation in
1863; and yet, in a sense, he was not the same man; events and
responsibilities had effected a profound but logical growth in his
personality. And the people of the Union were not ready to endorse
Emancipation in 1861. In 1863, in the darkest hour of the war, the
spirit of the North responded to the call, and, despite the vilification
of the President, was true to him to victory. More significant still,
in view of the events of today, is what then occurred in England. The
British Government was unfriendly; the British people as a whole had
looked upon our Civil War very much in the same light as the American
people regarded the present war at its inception--which is to say that
the economic and materialistic issue seemed to overshadow the moral one.
When Abraham Lincoln proclaimed it to be a war for human freedom, the
sentiment of the British people changed--of the British people as
distinct from the governing classes; and the textile workers of the
northern counties, whose mills could not get cotton on account of the
blockade, declared their willingness to suffer and starve if the slaves
in America might be freed.
Abraham Lincoln at that time represented the American people as the
British Government did not represent the British people. We are
concerned today with peoples rather than governments.
It remained for an American President to announce the moral issue of the
present war, and thus to solidify behind him, not only the liberal mind
of America, but the liberal elements within the nations of Europe. He
became the democratic leader of the world. The issue, simply stated, is
the advancement of democracy and peace. They are inseparable.
Democracy, for progress, demands peace. It had reached a stage, when, in
a contracting world, it could no longer advance through isolation: its
very existence in every country was threatened, not only by the partisans
of reaction from within, but by the menace from without of a militaristic
and imperialistic nation determined to crush it, restore superimposed
authority, and dominate the globe. Democracy, divided against itself,
cannot stand. A league of democratic nations, of democratic peoples, has
become imperative. Hereafter, if democracy wins, self-determination, and
not imperialistic exploitation, is to be the universal rule. It is the
extension, on a world scale, of Mr. Wilson's Mexican policy, the
application of democratic principles to international relationships, and
marks the inauguration of a new era. We resort to force against force,
not for dominion, but to make the world safe for the idea on which we
believe the future of civilization depends, the sacred right of
self-government. We stand prepared to treat with the German people when
they are ready to cast off autocracy and militarism. Our attitude toward
them is precisely our attitude toward the Mexican People. We believe,
and with good reason, that the German system of education is
authoritative and false, and was more or less deliberately conceived in
order to warp the nature and produce complexes in the mind of the German
people for the end of preserving and perpetuating the power of the
Junkers. We have no quarrel with the duped and oppressed, but we war
against the agents of oppression. To the conservative mind such an
aspiration appears chimerical. But America, youngest of the nations, was
born when modern science was gathering the momentum which since has
enabled it to overcome, with a bewildering rapidity, many evils
previously held by superstition to be ineradicable. As a corollary to
our democratic creed, we accepted the dictum that to human intelligence
all things are possible. The virtue of this dictum lies not in dogma,
but in an indomitable attitude of mind to which the world owes its every
advance in civilization; quixotic, perhaps, but necessary to great
accomplishment. In searching for a present-day protagonist, no happier
example could be found than Mr. Henry Ford, who exhibits the
characteristic American mixture of the practical and the ideal. He
introduces into industry humanitarian practices that even tend to
increase the vast fortune which by his own efforts he has accumulated.
He sees that democratic peoples do not desire to go to war, he does not
believe that war is necessary and inevitable, he lays himself open to
ridicule by financing a Peace Mission. Circumstances force him to
abandon his project, but he is not for one moment discouraged. His
intention remains. He throws all his energy and wealth into a war to end
war, and the value of his contribution is inestimable.