The Choice We Must Face Democracy and Imperialism,
Or Democracy and Standards?
Irving Babbitt
Irving Babbitt, who taught French and Comparative
Literature at Harvard from 1894 to 1933, was one of the leading social
and cultural thinkers of his era. This article, adapted from the chapters
entitled "Democracy and Imperialism" and "Democracy and Standards" in Babbitt's
1924 classic, Democracy and Leadership, may be even more pertinent
to the dilemmas of the contemporary, post-Cold War world than to those
of Babbitt's own time.
In our recent crusade to make the world safe for democracy [World War I]
it was currently assumed that democracy is the same as liberty and the
opposite of imperialism. The teachings of history are strangely different.
Democracy in the sense of direct and unlimited democracy is, as was pointed
out long ago by Aristotle, the death of liberty; in virtue of its tyrannical
temper, it is likewise, in the broad sense in which I have been using the
term, closely akin to imperialism.*
Now the distinction of Rousseau is, as we have seen, to have been the most
uncompromising of all modern theorists of direct democracy. How far have
the actual results of Rousseauism justified Aristotle rather than those
who have anticipated from the diffusion of the Rousseauistic evangel, a
paradise of liberty, equality, and fraternity? The commanding position
of Rousseau in the democratic movement is at all events beyond question,
though even here it is possible to exaggerate. "Democracy," says M. de
Vogüé, "has only one father—Rousseau. . . . The great muddy
stream which is submerging us flows from the writings and the life of Rousseau
like the Rhine and the Po from the Alpine reservoirs which feed them perpetually."1
It is interesting to place alongside of this and similar passages which
might be multiplied indefinitely, passages2
from German authorities, likewise very numerous, to the effect that Rousseau
is more than any other person the father of their Kultur. Here,
too, one must allow for an element of exaggeration. Much in Germany that
is often ascribed to Rousseau may be traced to English influences, the
same influences that acted on Rousseau himself.
Passages of the kind I have just cited seem to establish a first connection
between Kultur, which has come to be regarded as in its essence
imperialistic, and Rousseauistic democracy. Kultur, when closely
scrutinized, breaks up into two main elements—on the one hand, scientific
efficiency, and on the other, a nationalistic enthusiasm to which this
efficiency is made to minister. The relationship to Rousseauism must evidently
be looked for first of all in the second of these elements, that of nationalistic
enthusiasm. . . . According to the new ethics, virtue is not restrictive
but expansive, a sentiment and even an intoxication. In its unmodified
natural form, it has its basis in pity which may finally develop into the
virtue of the great cosmopolitan souls of whom he speaks in the Second
Discourse, who transcend national frontiers and embrace the whole of
the human race in their benevolence. We are here at the headwaters of the
sentimental internationalism of the past century. But Rousseau, as I have
already said, distinguishes sharply between the virtue of man simply as
man and the virtue of the citizen. When man is "denatured" by entering
the state, his virtue is still a sentiment and even an intoxication, but
is very far from being cosmopolitan. Rousseau oscillates between the two
types of virtue, that of the man and that of the citizen, and can scarcely
be said to have attempted a serious mediation between them. According as
he wants the one or the other type of "virtue," he devises different systems
of education. In Emile, for example, he sets out to make a man,
in the "Considerations on the Government of Poland," a citizen. The love
of country and the love of mankind are, he declares, incompatible passions.3
What is Rousseau's own choice, one may ask, as between an emotional nationalism
and an emotional internationalism? On this point no doubt is possible.
The love of country he takes to be the more beautiful passion. The virtuous
intoxication of the internationalist seems to him pale and ineffectual
compared with the virtuous intoxication of the citizen; and herein history
has certainly confirmed him. The fact that l'ivresse patriotique
may make the citizens of one country ruthless in their dealings with the
citizens of other countries seems to him a matter of small moment.4
In his schemes for inbreeding patriotic sentiment, he seems to be looking
forward to the type of nationalism that has actually emerged during the
last century, especially perhaps in Germany. The question of war becomes
acute if Europe, and possibly the world, is thus to be made up of states,
each animated by what one is tempted to term a frenzied nationalism, without
any countervailing principle of unity. That the new nationalism is more
potent than the new internationalism was revealed in August 1914 when millions
of socialists, in response to the call of country, marched away to the
slaughter of their fellow socialists in other lands. That Protestant unity
has likewise proved inadequate seems sufficiently clear from the fact that
the men of the two chief Protestant countries, at the same time that they
were blowing one another to pieces with high explosives, sought to starve
one another's women and children en masse. The papacy again, representing
the traditional unity of European civilization, has also shown itself unable
to limit effectively the push of nationalism.
Furthermore, nationalities of the kind that have grown up in modern
Europe will not, as Rousseau points out, be kept from fighting with one
another by treaties and alliances. He warns the Poles that among the Christian
nations, treaties and alliances are only scraps of paper . . . . Rousseau
shows much shrewdness in reviewing . . . the problem of peace and war in
Europe from the Middle Ages down. One institution, he admits, had done
much in the past to lessen political conflicts. It is undeniable, he says,
that Europe owes to Christianity above all, even today, the species of
union that has survived among its members. He goes on to say, anticipating
Heine and following Hobbes, that Rome, having suffered material defeat,
sent her dogmas instead of her legions into the provinces. To this spiritual
Rome, medieval and modern Europe has owed what small equivalent it has
enjoyed of the Pax romana. The ultimate binding element in the medieval
order was subordination to the divine will and its earthly representatives,
notably the pope. The latter Middle Ages and the Renaissance saw a weakening
of this principle of union and the rise of great territorial nationalities.
According to the school of Grotius, the relations of these nationalities
are to be regulated primarily not by will in any sense, but by reason.
The Abbé de Saint-Pierre, perhaps the earliest complete French example
of the professional philanthropist, has a still more naive confidence in
reason. He saw well enough, says Rousseau, how his schemes would work if
they were once established, but was childish (and herein he resembled other
"reformers" down to the present day) in his notions of the means for getting
them established. His fundamental error, Rousseau complains, was in thinking
that men are governed by their reason, when they are in reality governed
by their passions.5 . . .
Though Rousseau can speak on occasion with positive contempt of cosmopolitans,
he can be shown to have exercised his main influence on those who began
by standing, both nationally and internationally, for fraternity, a fraternity
that was to be ideally combined with liberty and equality. We need to trace
briefly the imperialistic upshot of this evangel, especially in the French
Revolution, and then, turning away from the more peripheral aspects of
the relation between democracy and imperialism, to try to get at the root
of the whole matter in the psychology of the individual.
Rousseau, we have seen, seeks to discredit not merely a particular aristocracy,
but the aristocratic principle in general. "The people," he says, "constitute
the human race": all that is not the people is parasitic and "scarcely
deserves to be counted were it not for the harm it does." Perhaps no doctrine
has ever been more cunningly devised to fill the poor man and the plebeian
with self-righteous pride, and at the same time to inflame him with hatred
and suspicion of those who enjoy any social or economic superiority. It
is a curious fact, known to all students of the period, that those who
perhaps did the most to promote Rousseauism, and in general the new philanthropy,
were the members of the privileged classes themselves. The causes of this
strange phenomenon are complex, but have been traced with sufficient accuracy
by Taine in his Ancien Regime. The members of the French aristocracy,
and that as far back as Richelieu and Louis XIV, had largely ceased to
perform the work of an aristocracy. They had become drawing-room butterflies
and hangers-on at court. Now the enemy of those who have ceased to work,
in some sense or other of the word, has always been ennui; and in addition,
the denizens of the drawing-room suffered during the first half of the
eighteenth century from rationalistic dryness and an excess of artificial
decorum. They finally sought relief in a return to nature and the simple
life. An idyllic element had been present in the life of the drawing-room
from the start, as all know who have studied the influence of d'Urfé's
Astrée
on the Marquise de Rambouillet and her group; and this perhaps made the
way easier for another form of pastoralism. "The fops," as Taine phrases
it, "dreamt between two madrigals of the happiness of sleeping naked in
the virgin forest." Marie Antoinette milked her own cows and lived the
pastoral dream at the Petit Trianon. Many of the nobles and higher clergy,
won over to the new enthusiasm, took oath to divest themselves of all the
privileges of rank in favor of the new equality which was itself to be
only a preliminary to the golden dawn of brotherhood. The advent of this
brotherhood was actually celebrated in the Federation of the Champ de Mars
(1790) which was meant to symbolize the melting of all Frenchmen together
in a fraternal embrace. Anacharsis Cloots, the "orator of humankind," had
representatives of the different races and nations of the Earth, each appropriately
garbed, parade before the National Assembly as the symbol of a still more
universal fraternity. "Never," says the Comte de Ségur, "were more
delightful dreams followed by a more terrible awakening." Instead of universal
brotherhood there was a growing mania of suspicion. The malady of Rousseau
became epidemic, until, at the height of the Terror, men were "suspect
of being suspect." The very persons who had rushed into one another's arms
at the Federation of the Champ de Mars began to guillotine one another.
In the number of those who thus perished was the "orator of mankind." Among
the earliest victims were the members of the privileged classes who had
been so zealous in promoting the new philanthropy, just as the parlor socialists
of our own day would be among the first to suffer if the overturn they
are preaching should actually occur. As Chesterton says, if the social
revolution takes place, the streets will run red with the blood of philanthropists.
If one wishes to enter into the psychology of the later stages of the
Revolution, one should devote special attention to avowed disciples of
Rousseau like Robespierre. He adopts in a rather uncompromising form Rousseau's
view of "virtue," and so is led to set up an "ideal" France over against
the real France, and this "ideal" France is largely a projection of what
I have termed the idyllic imagination. The opposition that he established
between the virtuous and the vicious is even less an opposition between
virtuous and vicious individuals than between whole classes of individuals.
The judging of men by their social grouping rather than by their personal
merits and demerits, that seemed to Burke so iniquitous, has as a matter
of fact, been implicit in the logic of this movement from the French to
the Russian Revolution. Danton already says: "These priests, these nobles
are not guilty, but they must die, because they are out of place, interfere
with the movement of things, and will stand in the way of the future."
Danton, so far as he was responsible for the September Massacres, made
some application of this revolutionary logic. Leaders like Robespierre
and Saint-Just, however, developed it far more than Danton into a program
of wholesale proscription. The actual France was too rich and populous.
Robespierre and Saint-Just were ready to eliminate violently whole social
strata that seemed to them to be made up of parasites and conspirators,
in order that they might adjust this actual France to the Sparta of their
dreams; so that the Terror was far more than is commonly realized a bucolic
episode.6 It lends color to the assertion
that has been made that the last stage of sentimentalism is homicidal mania.
In theory, Robespierre is, like Rousseau, rigidly egalitarian. He is
not a real leader at all—only the people's "hired man." But at critical
moments, in the name of an ideal general will, of which he professes to
be only the organ, he is ready to impose tyrannically his will on the actual
people. The net result of the Rousseauistic movement is thus not to get
rid of leadership, but to produce an inferior and even insane type of leadership,
and in any case leadership of a highly imperialistic type. This triumph
of force can be shown to be the total outcome of liberty, equality, and
fraternity in the Rousseauistic sense. Rousseau himself . . . would force
people to be free. The attempt to combine freedom with equality led, and,
according to Lord Acton, always will lead, to terrorism. As for Jacobinical
fraternity, it has been summed up in the phrase: "Be my brother or I'll
kill you." Moreover, the clash of a leader like Robespierre is not only
with enemies of the Revolution, but with other more or less sincere revolutionary
fanatics whose imaginations are projecting different "ideals." The sole
common denominator of leaders thus obstinate, each in the pursuit of a
separate dream, is force. The movement had repudiated the traditional controls,
and so far as any new principle of cohesion was concerned, had turned out
to be violently centrifugal. The only brotherhood the Jacobinical leaders
had succeeded in founding was, as Taine puts it, a brotherhood of Cains.
Robespierre, however, was not the type of leader finally destined to
emerge from the Revolution. As early as 1790 Burke had predicted that the
Revolution would turn at last to the profit of some military adventurer.
The doctrine of popular sovereignty as developed from the Social Contract
had been found to encourage a sort of chronic anarchy. Inasmuch as society
cannot go on without discipline of some kind, men were constrained, in
the absence of any other form of discipline, to turn to discipline of the
military type. In the army it was still possible to find the orderly subordination
and loyalty to acknowledged merit that the Jacobins had, on principle,
been undermining in civil France. Bonaparte is therefore no accident. He
is the true heir and executor of the Revolution. After his grenadiers had
chased members of the Cinq-Cents through the doors and out of the windows
of the Orangerie at Saint-Cloud (18 Brumaire), and when he had revealed
himself more and more nakedly as the imperialistic superman, it is not
to be supposed that the Jacobins as a body stood aloof. What became apparent,
on the contrary, was the affinity that has always existed between an unlimited
democracy and the cult of ruthless power. No one crawled more abjectly
at the feet of Napoleon than some of the quondam Terrorists. "On the point
of becoming barons and counts, the Jacobins spoke only of the horrors of
1793, of the necessity of punishing the proletarians and of repressing
popular excesses. From day to day there was taking place the transformation
of republicans into imperialists and of the tyranny of all into the despotism
of a single man." 7 . . .
I have been trying to make clear the relation between Rousseauistic
democracy and imperialism in France itself. The same relationship appears
if we study the Rousseauistic movement internationally. Perhaps no movement
since the beginning of the world has led to such an inbreeding of national
sentiment of the type that in the larger states runs over very readily
into imperialistic ambition. I have said that the Revolution almost from
the start took on the character of a universal crusade. The first principles
it assumed made practically all existing governments seem illegitimate.
The various peoples were invited to overthrow these governments, based
upon usurpation, and, having recovered their original rights, to join with
France in a glorious fraternity. What followed is almost too familiar to
need repetition. Some of the governments whose legitimacy was thus called
into question took alarm and, having entered into an alliance, invaded
France.8 This foreign menace moved
France to the first great burst of national enthusiasm in the modern sense.
The cry of the revolutionary army—Vive la nation—heard by Goethe
in a pause of the cannonading of Valmy—was rightly taken by him to mark
the dawn of a new era.9 The beginnings
of the very type of warfare we have recently been witnessing in Europe,
that is, the coming together of whole nations for mutual massacre (la
levée en masse), go back to this period. The new national enthusiasm
supplied France with soldiers so numerous and so spirited that she not
only repelled her invaders, but began to invade other countries in turn,
theoretically on a mission of emancipation. In the actual stress of events,
however, the will to power turned out to be stronger than the will to brotherhood,
and what had begun as a humanitarian crusade ended in Napoleon and imperialistic
aggression. This aggression awakened in turn the new national sentiment
in various countries, and did more than all other agencies combined to
prepare the way for a powerful and united Germany.10
France ceased to be the "Christ of nations" and became the traitor to humankind
universally denounced by the disillusioned radicals of the time, especially
after the invasion of Switzerland (1798).11
Anyone who rejects the humanitarian theory of brotherhood runs the risk
of being accused of a lack of fraternal feeling. The obvious reply of the
person of critical and experimental temper is that, if he rejects the theory,
it is precisely because he desires brotherhood. After an experience of
the theory that has already extended over several generations, the world
would seem at times to have become a vast seething mass of hatred and suspicion.
What Carlyle wrote of the Revolution has not ceased to be applicable: "Beneath
this rose-colored veil of universal benevolence is a dark, contentious,
hell on-earth." One is finally led to the conviction that the contrast
between the ideal and the real in this movement is not the ordinary contrast
between the willingness of the spirit and the weakness of the flesh; that
on the contrary this particular field of union among men actually promotes
the reality of strife that it is supposed to prevent. One might without
being too fanciful establish a sort of synchronism between the prevalence
of pacifistic schemes and the actual outbreak of war. The propaganda of
the Abbé de Saint-Pierre was followed by the wars of Frederick the
Great. The humanitarian movement of the end of the eighteenth century,
which found expression in Kant's treatise on "Perpetual Peace," was followed
and attended by twenty years of the bloodiest fighting the world has ever
known. The pacifist agitation of the early twentieth century, that found
outer expression in the Peace Palace at The Hague, was succeeded by battle
lines hundreds of miles long. The late M. Boutroux, whom no one will accuse
of being a cynic, said to a reporter of the Temps in 1912 that from
the amount of peace talk abroad, he inferred that the future was likely
to be "supremely warlike and bloody." . . .
From a strictly psychological point of view,**
the movement we are studying had not only produced all its characteristic
fruits over a hundred years ago, but also its two outstanding and truly
significant personalities—Rousseau and Napoleon. If there had been no Rousseau
Napoleon is reported to have said, there would have been no Revolution,
and without the Revolution, I should have been impossible. Now Rousseau
may be regarded as being more than any other one person the humanitarian
Messiah. Napoleon, for his part, may be defined, in Hardy's phrase, as
the Christ of War. So that the humanitarian Messiah set in motion forces
that led by a process that I have attempted to sketch in rough general
outline to the rise of a Christ of War.
A remarkable feature of the humanitarian movement, on both its sentimental
and utilitarian sides, has been its preoccupation with the lot of the masses.
"All institutions," says Condorcet, for example, "ought to have for their
aim the physical, intellectual, and moral amelioration of the poorest and
most numerous class." But on the utilitarian no less than on the sentimental
side of the movement, the contrast between the ideal and the real is so
flagrant as to suggest some central omission in humanitarian psychology.
If the Rousseauist set up an ideal of universal brotherhood that led actually
to universal conscription, the utilitarian for his part has put prime emphasis
on material organization and efficiency and so, with the aid of physical
science, has gradually built up an enormous mass of interlocking machinery
which was, in theory, to serve humanity and promote the greatest good of
the greatest number, but has in practice been pressed into the service
of the will to power of individuals and social groups and nationalities.
As a result of the coming together of the various factors I have enumerated,
war has become almost inconceivably maleficent. The chief victims have
been the very masses whom both Rousseauist and Baconian have professed
themselves so eager to benefit. The clashes between states and coalitions
of states have, under existing conditions, become clashes between Frankenstein
monsters. . . .
The whole Occident, and increasingly, indeed, the whole world, is now
faced with a similar problem as to the quality of the "soul" that animates
the vast mechanism of material efficiency, to the building up of which
the Occident has for several generations past been devoting its main effort.
Is this "soul" a Rousseauistic or a genuinely ethical "soul"? One is tempted
to define the civilization (or what we are pleased to term such) that has
been emerging with the decline of the traditional controls as a mixture
of altruism and high explosives. If anything is amiss with the altruism,
the results may prove to be rather serious. The idealists affirm either
that man is so lovely in his natural self that he needs no control at all,
or else that he can be induced to exercise the necessary control with reference
to the good of his fellows. Everything hinges, in either case, on the presence
in the natural man of an element of love or will to service that is of
itself a sufficient counterpoise to the natural man's will to power. Here
is the dividing line between egoists and altruists, and not merely in the
appeal to utility. . . .
A gross and palpable error of the era that is just closing has been
the confusion of mechanical and material progress with moral progress.
Physical science is excellent in its own place, but when supreme moral
issues are involved, it is, as has been rightly remarked, only a multiplying
device.12 If there is rightness at
the center, it will no doubt multiply the rightness. If, on the other hand,
there is any central error, the peripheral repercussion, with men bound
together as they are at present, will be terrific. With the development
of inventions like the radio and the wireless telephone, the whole world
is becoming, in a very literal sense, a whispering-gallery. It is hardly
necessary to dilate on what is likely to follow if the words that are whispered
are words of hatred and suspicion. An increasing material union among men
who remain spiritually centrifugal means . . . a triumph . . . of the law
of cunning and the law of force . . . on a scale to which the past has
seen no parallel. Superlatives are dangerous things, but one is perhaps
justified in describing the present situation as one of unexampled gravity.
In dealing with democracy and the special type of fraternity it has
preached, as related to imperialism, I have thus far been confining myself
for the most part to the national and international phases of this relationship.
It is time to fulfill my promise, and, working in from the periphery toward
the center, seek to get at the root of the whole matter in the psychology
of the individual. For behind all imperialism is ultimately the imperialistic
individual, just as behind all peace is ultimately the peaceful individual.
I have already made a distinction of the first importance for the study
of the question of war or peace in terms of the individual, and that is
the distinction between the traditional Christian conception of liberty,
which implies spiritual subordination, and the Rousseauistic conception
which, whether we take it in the no-state of the Second Discourse
or the all-state of the Social Contract, is resolutely egalitarian.
At the end of his "Prometheus Unbound" Shelley has portrayed in the very
spirit of the Second Discourse the paradise that is to result from
the abolition of the traditional subordinations and inequalities:
The loathsome mask has fallen, the man remains
Scepterless, free, uncircumscribed, but man
Equal, unclassed, tribeless and nationless,
Exempt from awe, worship, degree.
But on any attempt to carry out this program, the enormous irony and contradiction
at the very heart of this movement becomes manifest. It leads one to break
down standards in the real world in favor of purely chimerical ideals.
For what actually follows the attempt to establish egalitarian liberty,
we need to turn from Shelley to Shakespeare:
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And hark, what discord follows! each thing meets
In mere oppugnancy: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. .
Then every thing includes itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite.
This last line reminds one of a remark of Jeremy Taylor that, in the absence
of ethical control, "men know no good but to please a wild, indetermined,
infinite appetite." The word infinite adds an essential idea. Other animals
have appetite, but within certain definite bounds, whereas man is, either
in good or bad sense, the infinite animal. Machiavelli is very metaphorical
when he speaks of his prince as combining the virtues of the lion and the
fox. The lion and the fox do not put forth their power or cunning beyond
what is needed for the satisfaction of their actual physical wants. They
do not strive to set up a vulpine or leonine empire over other animals.
One cannot truthfully say of them, as Carlyle says of his boot-black, that,
if given half the universe, they will soon be quarreling with the owner
of the other half. To be sure, as Swift remarks,
Now and then
Beasts may degen'rate into men.
But, as a rule, the man who is infinite after the fashion of Carlyle's
boot-black is in a fair way to become not beastly, but fiendish. As a result
of his infinitude, man is almost necessarily either better or worse than
other animals. His prime need is not, as in the case of other animals,
to satisfy certain limited physical wants, but to keep in good conceit
with himself. Now it is of the essence of conceit, a word which, as once
used, was synonymous with imagination in general, and as now used is nearly
related to the egocentric type of imagination, to strain out toward the
unlimited. This conceit is, it is to be feared, closely associated in unregenerate
man with envy and jealousy of anyone whose conceit seems to set up rival
pretensions to his own. Conceit also determines largely man's attitude
toward the truth. Truth according to the natural law***
he welcomes because it ministers to his power or comfort and in any case
piques his wonder and curiosity. Spiritual truth is less welcome because
it diminishes his conceit. Truth in this sense, as Goethe says, is less
congenial to human nature than error, because it imposes limitations, whereas
error does not. Tell the average person that some one is planning to get
into wireless communication with Mars, or to shoot a rocket at the moon,
and he is all respectful interest and attention at once. Tell him, on the
contrary, that he needs, in the interest of his own happiness, to walk
in the path of humility and self-control, and he will be indifferent, or
even actively resentful.
Man's conceit, and the tendency toward unlimited expansion that it gives
to the impulses of the natural man is of various types. Perhaps as good
a classification as any of the main types is that of the three lusts distinguished
by traditional Christianity—the lust of knowledge, the lust of sensation,
and the lust of power. It is interesting to study the lust of power as
it has appeared in the conquerors and great military adventurers of history.
Saint-Evremond has made some penetrating observations on this form of imperialistic
psychology in his "Dissertation on the Word Vast." The vastness that the
great dominators have displayed in their projects and ambitions is due,
as he points out, to the quality of their imaginations. The outward straining
of the imagination toward the unlimited Saint-Evremond takes to be the
weakness and not the strength of a Pyrrhus, an Alexander and a Richelieu.
It is a pity that Saint-Evremond was not able to extend his scrutiny to
a Napoleon. Napoleon plainly displayed two entirely different types of
vision: in dealing with the natural order, in planning a battle, for instance,
he showed himself capable of a tremendous concentration upon the facts;
but in his political ambitions, where factors of a more purely human order
came into play, he revealed an inability to limit his imagination that
was destined sooner or later to result in disaster. The coming together
of the two kinds of vision I have just defined gives a type with which
we have become very familiar, not only in our political and military, but
in our commercial leaders—that of the efficient megalomaniac. A surprising
number of these leaders have been, in intention at least, supermen, and
little Napoleons.
Assuming that Napoleon's imagination is of the general type that Saint-Evremond
ascribes to various great dominators of the past, we still have to explain,
if we are to understand the triumph of the imperialistic push for power
over Rousseauistic idealism, why a Napoleon so captivates the imagination
of other men; for this sort of leader would evidently be helpless unless
he had many accomplices. The Rousseauist, I have said, breaks down traditional
controls without setting up new ones. What emerges in the many men who
have as a result lapsed to the naturalistic level is not the will to brotherhood,
but the will to power; so that in this sense the Rousseauist is actually
promoting what he is in theory seeking to prevent. For what follows we
need to make an application of Freudian psychology to a libido even more
fundamental perhaps than the libido with which the Freudians themselves
have thus far been chiefly concerned—namely, the libido dominandi.
In a naturalistic era, the average man finds himself more or less in the
state of Carlyle's boot-black, but is at the same time hampered on every
side and kept from expanding freely along the lines of power, and is thus
diminished in his conceit of himself. He suffers from repressed and thwarted
desire. But what he is unable to get directly, he may secure vicariously.
At this point one begins to perceive the meaning of Hardy's description
of Napoleon as the Christ of War. The spell that Napoleon exercised was
not merely over the former Jacobins . . . but over the French masses. Let
one reflect on the way these masses rallied to him on the return from Elba,
and that, too, after he had wrought them almost incalculable evil:
Bien, dit-on, qu'il nous ait nut,
Le peuple encore le révère, etc.
I have said that to look on the state of Burke with its ethical leadership
as merely "pooled self-esteem" is misleading. The phrase has a certain
relevancy, however, when applied to the state that is under Napoleonic
leadership. The intrusion of this imperialistic element is strong not only
in all secular establishments, but also in the churches of the world, if
only because these churches, however immaculate they may be in theory,
are administered by human beings. It is not easy to overlook this element
in the papacy, even though one does not go so far as to say roundly with
Tyrrell: "Rome cares nothing for religion—only for power." The very divinities
that men have set up often impress one as being in a considerable measure
their pooled self-esteem. "We are glad," as Dryden says, '"to have God
on our side to maul our enemies, when we cannot do the work ourselves."
Jonathan Edwards has genuine religious elevation; but the Jehovah in whose
"fierceness" he plainly rejoices, and who tramples sinners under his feet
until their blood is "sprinkled on his garments," might lead some to dismiss
Edwards as a theological imperialist. . . .
It goes without saying that the imperialistic element I have noted in
religious beliefs, as well as in those who administer them, is not the
whole story. Above all, it is not the whole story in the case of Christianity.
Christianity has actually done much to curb the expansive lusts of the
human heart, and among its other lusts, the lust for power. . . . Christianity
in its medieval form actually did secure for Europe no small degree of
spiritual unity and cohesion . . .
Judged by any quantitative test, the American achievement is impressive.
We have ninety percent of the motors of the world and control seventy-five
percent of its oil; we produce sixty percent of the world's steel, seventy
percent of its copper, and eighty percent of its telephones and typewriters.
This and similar statistical proof of our material preeminence, which would
have made a Greek apprehensive of Nemesis, seems to inspire in many Americans
an almost lyrical complacency. They are not only quantitative in their
estimates of our present accomplishment, but even more so if possible in
what they anticipate for the future. . . .
If quantitatively the American achievement is impressive, qualitatively
it is somewhat less satisfying. What must one think of a country, asks
one of our foreign critics, whose most popular orator is W. J. Bryan, whose
favorite actor is Charlie Chaplin, whose most widely read novelist is Harold
Bell Wright, whose best-known evangelist is Billy Sunday, and whose representative
journalist is William Randolph Hearst? What one must evidently think of
such a country, even after allowing liberally for overstatement, is that
it lacks standards. Furthermore, America suffers not only from a lack of
standards, but also not infrequently from a confusion or an inversion of
standards. . . .
The problem of standards, though not identical with the problem of democracy,
touches it at many points and is not therefore the problem of any one country.
Europeans, indeed, like to look upon the crudity and chaotic impressionism
of people who are no longer guided by standards as something specifically
American. . . . The deference for standards has, however, been diminished
by a certain type of democracy in many other countries besides America.
The resulting vulgarity and triviality are more or less visible in all
of these countries . . . . If we in America are perhaps preeminent in lack
of distinction, it is because of the very completeness of our emancipation
from the past. Goethe's warning as to the retarding effect of the commonplace
is well known (Was uns alle bändigt, das Gemeine). His explanation
of what makes for the commonplace is less familiar: "Enjoyment," he says,
"makes common" (Geniessen macht gemein). Since every man desires
happiness, it is evidently no small matter whether he conceives of happiness
in terms of work or of enjoyment. If he work in the full ethical sense
that I have attempted to define, he is pulling back and disciplining his
temperamental self with reference to some standard. In short, his temperamental
self is, in an almost literal sense, undergoing conversion. The whole of
life may, indeed, be summed up in the words diversion and conversion. Along
which of these two main paths are most of us seeking the happiness to the
pursuit of which we are dedicated by our Declaration of Independence? The
author of this phrase, Thomas Jefferson, remarks of himself: "I am an Epicurean."13
It cannot be gainsaid that an increasing number of our young people are,
in this respect at least, good Jeffersonians. The phrase that reflects
most clearly their philosophy of life is perhaps "good time." . . .
One is inclined, indeed, to ask, in certain moods, whether the net result
of the movement that has been sweeping the Occident for several generations
may not be a huge mass of standardized mediocrity; and whether in this
country in particular we are not in danger of producing in the name of
democracy one of the most trifling brands of the human Species that the
world has yet seen. To be sure, it may be urged that, though we may suffer
loss of distinction as a result of the democratic drift, by way of compensation
a great many average people will, in the Jeffersonian sense at least, be
made "happy." If we are to judge by history, however, what supervenes upon
the decline of standards and the disappearance of leaders who embody them
is not some egalitarian paradise, but inferior types of leadership. We
have already been reminded by certain developments in this country of Byron's
definition of democracy as an "aristocracy of blackguards." At the very
moment when we were most vociferous about making the world safe for democracy
the citizens of New York refused to reelect an honest man as their mayor
and put in his place a tool of Tammany, an action followed in due course
by a "crime wave"; whereupon they returned the tool of Tammany by an increased
majority. The industrial revolution has tended to produce everywhere great
urban masses that seem to be increasingly careless of ethical standards.
In the case of our American cities, the problem of securing some degree
of moral cohesion is further complicated by the presence of numerous aliens
of widely divergent racial stocks and cultural backgrounds.14
. . .
We are assured, indeed, that the highly heterogeneous elements that
enter into our population will, like various instruments in an orchestra,
merely result in a richer harmony; they will, one may reply, provided that,
like an orchestra, they be properly led. Otherwise the outcome may be an
unexampled cacophony. This question of leadership is not primarily biological,
but moral. Leaders may vary in quality from the man who is so loyal to
sound standards that he inspires right conduct in others by the sheer rightness
of his example, to the man who stands for nothing higher than the law of
cunning and the law of force, and so is, in the sense I have sought to
define, imperialistic. If democracy means simply the attempt to eliminate
the qualitative and selective principle in favor of some general will,
based in turn on a theory of natural rights, it may prove to be only a
form of the vertigo of the abyss. As I have tried to show in dealing with
the influence of Rousseau on the French Revolution, it will result practically,
not in equality, but in a sort of inverted aristocracy. One's choice may
be, not between a democracy that is properly led and a democracy that hopes
to find the equivalent of standards and leadership in the appeal to a numerical
majority, that indulges in other words in a sort of quantitative impressionism,
but between a democracy that is properly led and a decadent imperialism.
One should, therefore, in the interests of democracy itself seek to substitute
the doctrine of the right man for the doctrine of the rights of man.
The opposition between traditional standards and an egalitarian democracy
based on the supposed rights of man has played an important part in our
own political history, and has meant practically the opposition between
two types of leadership. The "quality" in the older sense of the word suffered
its first decisive defeat in 1829 when Washington was invaded by the hungry
hordes of Andrew Jackson. The imperialism latent in this type of democracy
appears in the Jacksonian maxim: "To the victors belong the spoils." In
his theory of democracy Jackson had, of course, much in common with Thomas
Jefferson. If we go back, indeed, to the beginnings of our institutions,
we find that America stood from the start for two different views of government
that have their origin in different views of liberty and ultimately of
human nature. The view that is set forth in the Declaration of Independence
assumes that man has certain abstract rights; it has therefore important
points of contact with the French revolutionary "idealism." The view that
inspired our Constitution, on the other hand, has much in common with that
of Burke. If the first of these political philosophies is properly associated
with Jefferson, the second has its most distinguished representative in
Washington. The Jeffersonian liberal has faith in the goodness of the natural
man, and so tends to overlook the need of a veto power either in the individual
or in the state. The liberals of whom I have taken Washington to be the
type are less expansive in their attitude toward the natural man. Just
as man has a higher self that acts restrictively on his ordinary self,
so, they hold, the state should have a higher or permanent self, appropriately
embodied in institutions, that should set bounds to its ordinary self as
expressed by the popular will at any particular moment. The contrast that
I am establishing is, of course, that between a constitutional and a direct
democracy. There is an opposition of first principles between those who
maintain that the popular will should prevail, but only after it has been
purified of what is merely impulsive and ephemeral, and those who maintain
that this will should prevail immediately and unrestrictedly. The American
experiment in democracy has, therefore, from the outset been ambiguous,
and will remain so until the irrepressible conflict between a Washingtonian
and a Jeffersonian liberty has been fought to a conclusion. The liberal
of the type of Washington has always been very much concerned with what
one may term the unionist aspect of liberty. This central preoccupation
is summed up in the phrase of Webster: Liberty and union, one and inseparable.
The liberty of the Jeffersonian, on the other hand, makes against ethical
union like every liberty that rests on the assertion of abstract rights.
. . .
Jefferson . . . associated his liberty, not with God, but with "nature."
He admired, as is well known, the liberty of the American Indian.15
He was for diminishing to the utmost the role of government, but not for
increasing the inner control that must, according to Burke, be in strict
ratio to the relaxation of outer control. When evil actually appears, the
Jeffersonian cannot appeal to the principle of inner control; he is not
willing again to admit that the sole alternative to this type of control
is force; and so he is led into what seems at first a paradoxical denial
of his own principles; he has recourse to legislation. It should be clear
at all events that our present attempt to substitute social control for
self-control is Jeffersonian rather than puritanical. . . .
Standardization is . . . a less serious menace to standards than what
are currently known as "ideals." The person who breaks down standards in
the name of ideals does not seem to be impelled by base commercial motives,
but to be animated, on the contrary, by the purest commiseration for the
lowly and the oppressed. We must have the courage to submit this humanitarian
zeal to a close scrutiny. We may perhaps best start with the familiar dictum
that America is only another name for opportunity. Opportunity to do what?
To engage in a scramble for money and material success, until the multimillionaire
emerges as the characteristic product of a country dedicated to the proposition
that all men are created equal? According to Napoleon, the French Revolution
was also only another name for opportunity (la carrière ouverte
aux talents). Some of our commercial supermen have evidently been making
use of their opportunity in a very Napoleonic fashion. In any case, opportunity
has meaning only with reference to some true standard. The sentimentalist,
instead of setting up some such standard by way of protest against the
wrong type of superiority, inclines rather to bestow an unselective sympathy
on those who have been left behind in the race for economic advantage.
Even when less materialistic in his outlook, he is prone to dodge the question
of justice. He does not ask whether a man is an underdog because he has
already had his opportunity and failed to use it, whether, in short, the
man that he takes to be a victim of the social order is not rather a victim
of his own misconduct16 or at least
of his own indolence and inattention. He thus exposes himself to the penalties
visited on those who set out to be kinder than the moral law.
At bottom the point of view of the "uplifter" is so popular because
it nourishes spiritual complacency; it enables a man to look on himself
as "up" and on some one else as "down." But there is psychological if not
theological truth in the assertion of Jonathan Edwards that complacent
people are a "particular smoke" in God's nostrils. A man needs to look,
not down, but up to standards set so much above his ordinary self as to
make him feel that he is himself spiritually the underdog. The man who
thus looks up is becoming worthy to be looked up to in turn, and, to this
extent, qualifying for leadership. Leadership of this type, one may add,
may prove to be, in the long run, the only effectual counterpoise to that
of the imperialistic superman.
No amount of devotion to society and its supposed interests can take
the place of this inner obeisance of the spirit to standards. The humanitarian
would seem to be caught here in a vicious circle. If he turns from the
inner life to serve his fellow men, he becomes a busy-body. If he sets
out again to become exemplary primarily with a view to the benefit of others,
he becomes a prig. Nothing will avail short of humility. Humility, as Burke
saw, is the ultimate root of the justice that should prevail in the secular
order, as well as of the virtues that are specifically religious. The modern
problem, I have been insisting, is to secure leaders with an allegiance
to standards, now that the traditional order with which Burke associated
his standards and leadership has been so seriously shaken. Those who have
broken with the traditional beliefs have thus far shown themselves singularly
ineffective in dealing with this problem of leadership, even when they
have admitted the need of leaders at all. The persons who have piqued themselves
especially on being positive have looked for leadership to the exponents
of physical science. Auguste Comte, for example, not only regarded men
of science as the true modern priesthood, but actually disparaged moral
effort on the part of the individual. I scarcely need to repeat here what
I have said elsewhere—that the net result of a merely scientific "progress"
is to produce efficient megalomaniacs. . . .
One cannot grant that an aristocracy of scientific intellectuals or
indeed any aristocracy of intellect is what we need. This would mean practically
to encourage the libido sciendi and so to put pride in the place
of humility. Still less acceptable would be an aristocracy of artists;
as the word art has come to be understood in recent times, this would mean
an aristocracy of aesthetes who would attempt to base their selection on
the libido sentiendi. The Nietzschean attempt, again, to found the
aristocratic and selective principle on the sheer expansion of the will
to power (libido dominandi) would lead in practice to horrible violence
and finally to the death of civilization. . . .
The democratic idealist is prone to make light of the whole question
of standards and leadership because of his unbounded faith in the plain
people. How far is this appeal to the plain people justified and how far
is it merely demagogic? There is undoubted truth in the saying that there
is somebody who knows more than anybody, and that is everybody. Only one
must allow everybody sufficient time to sift the evidence and add that,
even so, everybody does not know very much. Burke told the electors of
Bristol that he was not flattering their Opinions of the moment, but uttering
the views that both they and he must have five years thence. Even in this
triumph of the sober judgment of the people over its passing impression,
the role of the true leader should not be underestimated. Thus in the year
1795 the plain people of America were eager to give the fraternal accolade
to the French Jacobins. The great and wise Washington opposed an alliance
that would almost certainly have been disastrous. . . .
A democracy, the realistic observer is forced to conclude, is likely
to be idealistic in its feelings about itself, but imperialistic about
its practice. The idealism and the imperialism, indeed, are in pretty direct
ratio to one another. For example, to be fraternal in Walt Whitman's sense
is to be boundlessly expansive, and a boundless expansiveness, is, in a
world like this, incompatible with peace. Whitman imagines the United States
as expanding until it absorbs Canada and Mexico and dominates both the
Atlantic and the Pacific—a program that would almost certainly involve
us in war with the whole world. If we go, not by what Americans feel about
themselves, but by what they have actually done, one must conclude that
we have shown ourselves thus far a consistently expansive, in other words,
a consistently imperialistic, people.17
We have merely been expanding, it may be replied, to our natural frontiers;
but we are already in the Philippines, and manifestly in danger of becoming
involved in Asiatic adventures. Japan, a country with fifty-seven million
inhabitants (increasing at the rate of about six hundred thousand a year),
on a group of islands not as large as the state of California, only seventeen
percent of which is arable, has at least a plausible pretext for reaching
out beyond her natural frontiers. But for us, with our almost limitless
and still largely undeveloped resources, to risk the horrors of war under
modern conditions for anything we are likely to gain from expanding eastward,
would be an extreme example of sheer restlessness of spirit and of an intemperate
commercialism. . . . We are willing to admit that all other nations are
self-seeking, but as for ourselves, we hold that we act only on the most
disinterested motives. We have not as yet set up, like revolutionary France,
as the Christ of Nations, but during the late war we liked to look on ourselves
as at least the Sir Galahad of Nations. If the American thus regards himself
as an idealist at the same time that the foreigner looks on him as a dollar-chaser,
the explanation may be due partly to the fact that the American judges
himself by the way he feels, whereas the foreigner judges him by what he
does.
This is not, of course, the whole truth. Besides our tradition of idealism
there is our unionist tradition based on a sane moral realism. "It is a
maxim," says Washington, "founded on the universal experience of mankind,
that no nation is to be trusted further than it is bound by its interests;
and no president, statesman or politician will venture from it." All realistic
observation confirms Washington. Those who are inspired by his spirit believe
that we should be nationally prepared, and then that we should mind our
own business. The tendency of our idealists, on the other hand, is to be
unprepared and then to engage in more or less general meddling. A third
attitude may be distinguished that may properly be associated with [Theodore]
Roosevelt. The follower of Roosevelt wants preparedness, only he cannot,
like the follower of Washington, be counted on to mind his own business.
The humanitarian would, of course, have us meddle in foreign affairs as
part of his program of world service. Unfortunately, it is more difficult
than he supposes to engage in such a program without getting involved in
a program of world empire. The term sentimental imperialism may be applied
to certain incidents in ancient Roman history.18
Some of the motives that we professed for entering the Great War remind
one curiously of the motives that men like Flamininus professed for going
to the rescue of Greece. Cicero, writing over a century later and only
a few months before his assassination by the emissaries of the Triumvirs,
said that he himself had once thought that Rome stood for world service
rather than for world empire, but that he had been bitterly disillusioned.
He proceeds to denounce Julius Caesar, the imperialistic leader par
excellence, as a demon in human form who did evil for its own sake.
But Caesar had at least the merit of seeing that the Roman ethos was changing,
that as the result of the breakdown of religious restraint (for which Stoical
"service" was not an adequate substitute), the Romans were rapidly becoming
unfit for republican institutions. . . .
Are we witnessing a similar moral deliquescence in this country, and,
if so, how far has it gone? One of our foreign critics asserts that we
have already reached the "Heliogabalus stage"—which is absurd. But at the
same time it is not to be denied that the naturalistic notion of liberty
has undermined in no small measure the two chief unifying influences of
the past—the church and the family. The decline in the discipline of the
family has been fairly recent. Persons are still living who can remember
the conditions that prevailed in the Puritan household.19
The process of emancipation from the older restraint has not usually presented
itself as a lapse into mere materialism. Idealism in the current sense
of that term has tended to take the place of traditional religion. The
descendants of the Puritans have gone in for commercialism, to be sure,
especially since the Civil War, but it has been commercialism tempered
by humanitarian crusading. As I have pointed out, the humanitarian does
not, like the genuine Puritan, seek to get at evil in the heart of the
individual, so that he is finally forced to resort to outer regulation.
The egoistic impulses that are not controlled at their source tend to prevail
over an ineffectual altruism in the relations of man with man and class
with class. The special mark of materialism, which is to regard property,
not as a means to an end, but as an end in itself, is more and more visible.
The conservative nowadays is interested in conserving property for its
own sake and not, like Burke, in conserving it because it is an almost
indispensable support of personal liberty, a genuinely spiritual thing.
As for the progressive, his preoccupation with property and what he conceives
to be its just distribution amounts to a morbid obsession. Orderly party
government will become increasingly difficult if we continue to move in
this direction, and we shall finally be menaced by class war, if, indeed,
we are not menaced by it already. Every student of history is aware of
the significance of this particular symptom in a democracy. One may sum
up what appears to be our total trend at present by saying that we are
moving through an orgy of humanitarian legalism toward a decadent imperialism.
Notes
1. Introduction & l'Iconographie de J.-J. Rousseau,
pp. vii-viii.[Back]
2. I have cited some of these passages in Rousseau
and Romanticism, p. 194 n. [Back]
3. See Political Writings (Vaughan), II, p.
172. [Back]
4. See the opening paragraphs of Emile ("Tout
patriote est dur aux étrangers," etc.). [Back]
5. Political Writings (Vaughan), I, p. 392 n.
[Back]
6. Cf. Chateaubriand, Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe,
II, pp. 12-14. [Back]
8. Both monarchists and revolutionary idealists had
of course other motives in addition to those they professed. For this whole
period, see E. Bourgeois, Manuel historique de politique étrangère,
II, pp. 1-184. [Back]
9. According to M. Chuquet, the remark of Goethe to
which I refer dates from 1820 and not from the evening of the battle (September
20, 1792). See article in Revue hebdomadaire, December 18, 1915.
[Back]
10. "La Révolution française fut le
fait générateur de l'idée de l'unité allemande."
Renan, Réforme intellectuelle et morale, p. 130. [Back]
11. See Coleridge's France: An Ode. For corresponding
German developments, see G. P. Gooch, Germany and the French Revolution,
passim.
[Back]
12. This point has been well made by Mr. J. Middleton
Murry in his essay on "The Nature of Civilization" (The Evolution of
an Intellectual, p. 168). [Back]
14. For example, 41 percent of the residents of New
York City are actually foreign-born; if we add those whose father or mother
or both were born abroad, the more or less foreign element in its population
amounts to 80 percent. [These figures refer to the early 1920s.—ed.] [Back]
16. "This is a chain of galley slaves," cried Sancho,
"who are going to the galleys." Be it how it may," replied Don Quixote,
"these people, since they are being taken, go by force and not of their
own will. . . . Here comes in the exercise of my office, to redress outrages
and to succor and aid the afflicted." "Let your worship reflect," said
Sancho, "that justice, which is the King's self, does no violence or wrong
to such people, but chastises them in punishment of their crimes." (Don
Quixote, Part I, ch. XXII.). [Back]
17. This consistent imperialism has been traced by
H. H. Powers in his volume America Among the Nations. [Back]
18. See Tenney Frank's Roman Imperialism, especially
chap. 8 ("Sentimental Politics"). [Back]
19. Professor G. H. Palmer has written from his own
memories an article on "The Puritan Home" (Atlantic Monthly, November
1921). [Back]
*By "imperialism" Babbitt refers to arbitrary assertiveness
not only among nations but also among individuals and groups.
[Back]
**Here as elsewhere Babbitt uses the word "psychological"
in a sense roughly equivalent to "philosophical," indicating that the evidence
involved is not metaphysical but a matter of concrete and universal human
experience. [Back]
***By the term "natural law" Babbitt refers to the
principles of the natural sciences. What moral philosophers have traditionally
termed the "natural law" Babbitt calls the "law for man." [Back]