V
It must be confessed, however, that this revolt is, for the most part, sentimental; it is a mental attitude only occasionally transmutable into terms of action. It is, moreover, sporadic and flickering; it dies out, after a time, and we revert to our usual moods, concerning ourselves with our particular interests, and letting the rest of the world wag as it will. The specific social reaction of the last few years has been especially marked. It has shown itself in the weakening or disruption of radical political movements, in the more hesitant attitude of the trade-unionists, in the decline of factory legislation,—in fact, of all legislation tending to the protection of the weaker and the regulation of the stronger,—and in a general feeling of the futility of social effort. The Anti-imperialists will have it that this admitted reaction is due to the South African and Philippine wars, to a lust of empire and a contempt for the rights of weaker peoples. It is a pretty theory, but unfortunately it has small basis in chronology. For the reaction had already become apparent before either war was waged. The date of its beginning may be variously guessed at; but it is probable that the time assigned to it in Chapter V—somewhere within the two years 1896-97—is not far wrong. Before that time a very large part of the public could occasionally be interested in social measures and movements, and in social literature. Thousands of even the most hardened philistines read Mr. George’s “Progress and Poverty,” Mr. Bellamy’s “Looking Backward,” and Mr. Kidd’s “Social Evolution.” And as for that minor section of the public, the social reformers, there was then to be found among them a radicalism of belief, a definiteness of aim, an ardency and determination of spirit that are sadly wanting now. Doubtless to every one of these, as he ruefully compares the two periods, there recurs the sentiment of the Wordsworthian recollection,—
“Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven.”
While in the bosom of every devotee of Things-as-they-are there rises the sentiment of thankfulness that the mass of the people have learned the wisdom of letting well enough alone.
Political radicalism reached its culminating point in the election of 1896. Despite certain foolish and mischievous notions embodied in the two radical platforms of that year, the combined movement was yet a consistent and unified attack upon class rule. The elections of the next two years revealed a waning of Populist and Democratic strength, and in 1900 a fine sense of caution prompted the Fusionists to subordinate the industrial demands of their platforms to the issue of Imperialism. The Socialists, it is true, usually increase their vote; but the admitted fact of a great growth of Socialist conviction throughout the land makes these slight increases at the polls appear but trivial, and only further confirms the view that such radicalism is sentimental rather than potential. Anti-trust conferences are not without an element of humor; at least, they are the cause of much humor in outsiders; and the widely heralded arbitration court of the National Civic Federation breaks down on the very occasion when most is expected of it—that of the anthracite coal strike. Organized labor, despite its greater numerical strength, is far less aggressive than of old; and except in isolated instances, it observes a caution which would have further distinguished Fabius. As for the growth of college settlements, the fact is only an added proof of reaction. They do a great good, unquestionably; but their basis is philanthropy and not social adjustment.
As a people, we have heard enough, for the time, about social problems, and prefer to interest ourselves in other matters. Professor Walter A. Wyckoff, who has recently changed the scene of his optimistic observances from America to England, has an article in the September Scribner’s on the English social situation. “The condition-of-the-people problem,” he writes, “lacks vitality for the moment because, as one shrewd observer remarked, ‘the public has grown tired of the poor.’” We are feeling the same weariness here. Our benevolence somewhat increases, and we are willing to give, and more than willing that the magnates shall give freely; but we want to be troubled no more with remedial schemes. Rather, we are disposed to trust to seigniorial wisdom and virtue to set things right. Some of us will perhaps decline to go so far in our trust as a certain prominent Massachusetts lady who proposed to abolish working-class suffrage. “I think,” said this lady in an address to a club of working girls, “many of the troubles between employer and men might be swept away if the men could not vote. If he felt that they did not stand on just the same footing as himself, that they had not quite so many privileges as he, the employer might have a chivalric feeling toward them.” Some of us may hesitate at this project, but withal we are willing to trust largely to seigniorial guidance.
Instead of the personal fidelity that characterized the older Feudalism, we are rapidly developing a class fidelity. History may repeat itself, as the adage runs; but not by identical forms and events. It is not likely that personal fidelity, as once known, can ever be restored: the long period of dislodgment from the land, the diffusion of learning, the exercise of the franchise, and the training in individual effort have left a seemingly unbridgeable chasm between the past and the present forms. But though personal fidelity, in the old sense, is improbable, group fidelity, founded upon the conscious dependence of a class, is already observable, and it grows apace. Out of the sense of class dependence arises the extreme deference which we yield, the rapt homage which we pay—not as individuals, but as units of a class—to the men of wealth. We do not know them personally, and we have no sense of personal attachment. But in most things we grant them priority. We send them or their legates to the Senate to make our laws; we permit them to name our administrators and our judiciary; we listen with eager attention to their utterances, and we abide by their judgment. When the venerable Mr. Hewitt, brought forth like the holy man Onias, in the Judean civil war between Aristobulus and Hyrcanus, to denounce the opposing faction, utters his anathema against the minions of Mr. Mitchell, we listen in awe and are convinced. A three-line interview with the chief of the magnates is read with an eagerness wholly wanting in our perusal of an official pronunciamento by the most strenuous of Presidents. Our racial sense of humor, it must be confessed, saves us from the more slavish forms of deference; we jest about solemn themes and take in vain the names of great beings. Even the name of the great magnate is more or less humorously played upon; and our latest national pastime of “trust-busting” reveals a like levity, though an innocent one. It shows, moreover, how far we have reacted from our Puritan forefathers. For it is pursued not on account of the pain it gives the trusts, but for the harmless pleasure it gives both participants and spectators. But our subserviency, though less formal than that of old, is withal more real and fundamental.