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