The Modern Temper: American Culture and Society in the 1920s

INTRODUCTION

"The world broke in two in 1922 or thereabouts, announced novelist Willa Cather. Journalist Mark Sullivan picked 1914, the beginning of World War I, as the point of fundamental alteration, from which we would never go back." That these astute observers were joined by many others in offering different dates to mark the watershed of the twentieth century should call into question the historian’s penchant for precise periodization. U.S. history covering the last hundred years has tended to fall into neat divisions by decade, a fate especially true of the 1920s. World War I’s end in 1918 seemed a natural break, signifying the close of one era and the beginning of a new one that in turn was closed by the stock market crash in 1929. The war’s timing encouraged contemporaries and historians to see a sharp break between prewar and postwar America. Moreover, it contributed to a sense that the war had been causal in transforming American cultural and intellectual life by bringing about the alienated, lost generation of intellectuals, creating the new woman, and pushing Americans into hedonism. Recent scholarship has challenged this vision; social historians in particular have made it increasingly clear that many of the changes so evident in the 1920s predated the war. The thrust of social history has been to challenge conventional periodization and to emphasize as well the unevenness of social change and the continuities that characterized the private worlds of individuals.

Why have historians persisted in viewing the period as so distinctive? Is it perhaps that historians cannot escape the fascination for the decade’s drama any more than their students can lose their romantic vision of the twenties filtered through the lens of The Great Gatsby? In part. It is also because the richness of the newer research—on women, ethnicity, and leisure, for example—makes an attempt at a new synthesis almost irresistible. And it is because an analysis of the decade’s events and concerns reveals so clearly the transformation of American culture as it emerged as a modern society.

In characterizing the 1920s as modern, I recognize that the essential transformations began in the late nineteenth century, with the triad of rapid industrialization, sprawling urbanization, and massive immigration. Industrial development changed the nature of work and daily life and gave rise to an extensive network of corporations that integrated the country into a national economy. The result, as Robert Wiebe has suggested in The Search for Order, 1877-1920, was to erode the isolation of island communities—the towns of antebellum America that while part of a market economy had nonetheless maintained a degree of local autonomy and order based on modesty in women, rectitude in men, and thrift, sobriety, and hard work in both. But the spread of railroads and national corporations after the Civil War transformed American communities. The multiplication of national bureaucratic structures—of voluntary associations, professional organizations, and corporations—led to an organized society in which both individuals and communities found themselves powerfully affected by forces outside their control and increasingly removed from the locus of economic and political power.

The growth of cities added to the complexity of life, as urban dwellers experienced impersonal relationships that replaced the intimate nature of smaller communities. Skyscrapers, elevators, streetcars, and the noise of the metropolis also contributed to a more mechanized, regimented life. And despite the nationalizing trends in the economy that had a certain homogenizing effect, the cities also became bastions of cultural pluralism. A highly visible working class increasingly subjected to the power of corporate employers made urban areas the site of notable episodes of class conflict, such as the Chicago Haymarket Riot of 1886. These tensions invaded the arena of culture as well when working-class saloons, dance halls, and other leisure-time venues became the focus of middle- and upper-class elites’ fears about declining morality and disintegrating social order.

These fears were closely associated with the pervasive presence of immigrants in the city. By 1900, new immigrants from Southern and Eastern Europe were the target of intense nativism, and in the early twentieth century, two other groups joined the streams of people migrating to American cities. Mexican immigration into the Southwest and Midwest dramatically increased in the teens, and African American migration from the South to the cities of the North accelerated with the beginning of World War I, adding still further diversity to the urban matrix.

The late nineteenth century witnessed other significant transformations. The massacre at Wounded Knee in 1890 signaled the final military conquest of Native Americans. With the displacement of indigenous people and the extension of the railroad, settlement and corporations moved west, leading historian Frederick Jackson Turner to reflect in 1893 on the meaning of the closing of the frontier. At the same time, the trajectory of conquest moved beyond the continent. Through diplomatic negotiations and the Spanish-American War, the United States had acquired an empire and become an international power, a position confirmed by its role in World War I.

Other changes stemmed from the challenges to traditional religious faith embodied in Darwinian science and the new biblical criticism that resulted in denominational upheavals for the churches and spiritual crises for individuals. Assaults on an older order emerged on the gender front as well, as working-class women increasingly entered paid employment and middle-class women began a campaign for women’s rights that coalesced in the suffrage amendment of 1919. Both were harbingers of major changes in women’s role and the family itself.

Many Americans were of two minds about these transformations. On the one hand, they were fearful about urban poverty, decay, and disorder. The decline in individual and community autonomy and the hardening of class lines prompted anxieties about social mobility and democratic politics. Pluralism threatened the nineteenth-century Victorian worldview that valued hierarchy, order, and a single standard of culture, morality, and values. On the other hand, many people were excited about progress. Breakthroughs in technology, the increase in material wealth, and the beginning of an empire seemingly heralded the upward march of civilization, with America in the forefront. Thus despite prevailing fears about challenges to their ordered world, for the most part Victorians remained optimistic.

In the 1920s, the same broad forces that had so powerfully transformed the nineteenth century continued the process of making America more modern—more organized, more bureaucratic, more complex. These continuities will be made evident as most chapters reach back a few years, sometimes a few decades, to set the stage and demonstrate that history resists clear-cut periodization. But despite strong links with the past, we can identify distinctive qualities as well. For example, the sense of unprecedented prosperity—made all the more striking by its dramatic collapse in the stock market crash of 1929—helped to give the decade its singular tone. By 1922 the country had recovered from a debilitating postwar depression and entered a period of stunning industrial productivity, neatly symbolized by auto manufacturer Henry Ford, whose use of mechanization and innovative management helped him to churn out affordable cars at such a spectacular rate that his success earned the label The Ford Miracle. This productivity, coupled with war-inflicted devastation of European economies, made the United States the dominant world economic power. At home, most Americans enjoyed a higher standard of living. Not everyone shared in the fabled prosperity, however. Many sectors of the economy, especially farming, never truly recovered from the postwar depression, and African Americans and other minorities continued to live in poverty. In general, the aura of wealth obscured a highly skewed distribution of income that placed the bulk of the country’s assets in the hands of a few. Nonetheless, the 1920s were marked by a sense of prosperity and a get-rich-quick mentality, evident not only in the stock market but also in giddy land booms in Florida and Los Angeles that reflected prosperous Americans’ sense of a new era of unlimited material progress.

The faith in prosperity powerfully shaped the politics of the decade. The Progressive reform era (1900-14) that had preceded World War I gave way in the 1920s to a period of conservatism in which politicians and pundits alike celebrated Big Business as the savior of American democracy and enterprise. The period’s Presidents—Warren Harding (1921–23), who died in office, Calvin Coolidge (1923-29), and Herbert Hoover (1929-33) —were Republicans who successfully identified their party with the promise of peace and prosperity. Differing dramatically in temperament and skill, they shared a commitment to promoting strong business/government cooperation that led to almost unbridled corporate power. Their approach to what they called the New Era underwrote a sense of complacency and preoccupation with material progress that is one facet of the characteristic tone of the 1920s.

But another key image, and perhaps the most enduring, is that of the roaring twenties—of a fast life, propelled by riches and rapidly changing social values. Dubious get-rich-quick schemes and fads like flagpole sitting contributed to a tone of feverish frivolity. Flappers dancing the Charleston and participating in a sexual revolution, movie stars in already decadent Los Angeles setting the pace for the rest of the country, and speakeasies trafficking in illegal liquor, all suggested a world far removed from Victorian restraint.

One group that contributed to this stereotype was the Lost Generation, a term used to describe the young artists and writers of the decade whose works embodied so much of the spirit of the times. Poets like Edna St. Vincent Millay celebrated the new—and sexually liberated—woman. Novelists like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway depicted a generation’s cynicism and disillusionment which seemed to explain the escapism that fueled the excesses of the jazz age. Somewhat older writers like Sinclair Lewis also figured importantly in creating the literary portrait of the twenties. Lewis’s Babbitt serves as such an enduring critique of middle-class life that Babbitt entered dictionaries as a term connoting a businessman caught up in almost ritualistic consumerism and conformity. These writers made a lasting mark, shaping a scenario of the twenties for generations to come. While there is some truth to these images—especially among the urban, white, prosperous middle and upper classes —they overshadow the average Americans who led far more quiet lives and ignore those excluded from the prosperity of the times.

This depiction of the roaring twenties also obscures the complexities lying beneath the surface, especially the considerable social tensions that permeated the culture. After a major period of industrial unrest in 1919-20, in which corporations ruthlessly repressed strikes, labor was for the most part quiescent in the twenties and subject to increased regimentation. But if class conflict for the most part was muted, ethnic and racial tensions came roiling to the surface. Race riots in Chicago and other cities in 1919 signified new dynamics in urban areas that had experienced significant African American migration during the war years. Migration to the North as well as wartime military service helped to create a militant spirit among African Americans. Both the artistic movement termed the Harlem Renaissance and the black nationalism of Marcus Garvey and his Universal Negro Improvement Association symbolized what was popularly called the New Negro. Empowering for African Americans, the new spirit was unsettling to whites who wished to maintain a repressive racial order.

White Anglo-Saxon Protestants also continued to resent the rising influence of immigrants, Catholics, and Jews, and the 1920s were a particularly virulent period of nativism. The decade had been ushered in by the 1919-20 Red Scare, a product of Americans’ fears that the 1919 Bolshevik Revolution in Russia might spread to the United States. That fear, coupled with the postwar wave of strikes, unspent wartime nationalism, and long-standing hostility to immigrants, led to a widespread hysteria about radicals and dissenters, with much of the focus on aliens. After a witch hunt marked by massive violations of civil liberties, the extremes of the Red Scare died down, but the animus toward immigrants did not, and Congress passed a series of laws that severely restricted European and Asian immigration. A new Ku Klux Klan modeled after the southern Reconstruction Klan contributed to the nativist furor. Targeting African Americans, immigrants, Catholics, and Jews, it spread its racist and xenophobic ideology and became a potent force in local and national politics until its demise in the mid-twenties.

Nativism also figured in another distinctive facet of the 1920s: prohibition. The Eighteenth Amendment outlawing the sale of intoxicating beverages had passed in 1919, but it continued to be a highly contested issue until its repeal in 1933. Supporters viewed prohibition not only as a means of promoting morality and sobriety but as a symbol of the dominance of white Anglo-Saxon Protestant cultural values. Critics assailed it for violating personal liberties while ethnic groups resented its cultural imperialism. Prohibition persisted as a disruptive issue in politics, most notably in the 1928 presidential contest between Hoover and Al Smith, where Smith’s immigrant background, Catholicism, and opposition to prohibition figured prominently in the campaign.

Specific events, people, and social movements helped to define the 1920s, but the decade was also distinguished by Americans’ growing consciousness of change, a perception that a yawning gulf separated them from the world of only a decade before. World War I set the stage for this shift in tone. Older interpretations of the impact of war centered on the way it crushed the progressive reform movement that had sought to ameliorate problems of industrial, urban society. The war allegedly left in its wake disillusionment and reaction, as indicated by the Red Scare’s repression of aliens and radicals. Disillusionment with war and a concomitant search for escape in amusements also suggested an explanation for the nation’s retreat from world politics and the Senate’s failure to ratify the Covenant of the League of Nations, Woodrow Wilson’s cherished plan for an international organization to prevent future wars. In this view, Americans in the 1920s appear to be reactionary, hedonistic, and self-centered, and the stock market crash brings to an end a morality play, with the Great Depression the nation’s punishment for its sins of excess and selfishness.

Revisionist historians have long since corrected this image of the jazz age (although it seems quite resilient in popular culture and memory and thus worth addressing here). The 1920s were not a period of unrelieved hedonism, nor did reform completely disappear. Partisan politics, Wilson’s intransigence, and the public’s ambivalence about internationalism had as much to do with killing the League as did disillusionment. Nor does World War I account for the tremendous social forces transforming American life—industrialization, immigration, urbanization, and changing patterns in work, politics, religion, leisure, and the family were in place well before 1914-18.

Yet, if the impact of the war has been misstated, it was nonetheless a major watershed that is central to understanding the decade. It contributed to the economic boom that made the prosperity of the twenties possible, and also promoted significant population movement—especially the rural-to-urban migration of African Americans, Mexicans, and native whites—thus underscoring the ethnic and racial heterogeneity of the society. Many contemporaries were also convinced that the war, by giving women opportunities in formerly male jobs, had created the liberated woman. Other popular views held that war undermined religious faith and set in motion the secular trends that many observers noted in the 1920s. Although both of these perceptions greatly overstated the impact of the war, nonetheless they point to the way in which the public viewed the war as undermining traditional values, religious faith, and sexual mores.

Indeed, since the war emerged as a persistent refrain that people invoked to describe a wide range of changes in daily life and cultural values. Everything from rising divorce rates, flaming youth, African American militancy, increased standardization and regimentation, and the vogue for fads like crossword puzzles was chalked up to the war. Most commonly, Americans used it to try to pin down a troubling change in mood. From the pages of Presbyterian Magazine came the announcement: The world has been convulsed … and every field of thought and action has been disturbed … . The most settled principles and laws of society … have been attacked. In the popular journal World’s Work, one author announced that the World War has accentuated all our differences. It has not created those differences, but it has revealed and emphasized them. The war, in short, became a key metaphor for major changes transforming modern civilization: a marker that helped to explain and thus make more manageable the emergence of a modern society.

A watershed of a different kind was reflected in the U.S. Census Bureau’s findings that marked 1920 as the turning point of the country’s urbanization: fully one-half of America’s 105 million people now lived in cities. To some extent, this was a dubious statistic, since the Census Bureau used a population of 2,500 people as the cutoff for urban, not a very meaningful measure of urbanization. But the census data formed part of the contemporary assessment of the growth and influence of cities. Observers in the 1920s had a sense—at times oversimplified—that they were witnessing an urban/rural conflict, a battle between the forces of change and the forces of reaction. Prohibition, the Ku Klux Klan, and immigration restriction were just the most well-known manifestations of this tension, and signified native white Protestants’ anxious concern that the cities and the culture itself risked being dominated by immigrants and African Americans. For their part, more than ever before, African Americans and other minorities were challenging the status quo, and were demanding a pluralistic vision of American identity that would accord them cultural influence and political power.

In addition to pluralism, the cities also embodied the power of large corporations, their economic influence, and the continued transformation of work. The metropolis was also the home of mass culture—of popular magazines, newspaper syndications, advertising, and the movies. Leisure and consumption provided some of the most visible, modern changes of the 1920s. An urban, cosmopolitan culture, shaped by its pluralism and the agencies of mass culture, spread to the hinterlands and helped to promote new social values. Technology and mass production resulted in a flood of consumer products. Automobiles, electric irons, refrigerators, and radios, a fraction of the goods available to increasingly more Americans, helped to transform daily life dramatically.

The new values and new products signaled the clear emergence of a consumer culture characterized by an emphasis on leisure, purchasing, sociability, expressiveness, and personal pleasure. Changing sexual morality, modified ideas about success and how to achieve it, and mounting secularism merged with the values of consumerism to form a major challenge to the Victorian ethos of restraint, frugality, and order. All of these changes were contested, as some Americans embraced the freedom implied in the new social order while others bemoaned the corruption of the old culture. And for many, both sentiments played a part. As Lawrence W. Levine has suggested, Americans in the twenties harbored feelings of both progress and nostalgia.

Working with the premise that the decade of the 1920s illuminates fundamental issues of the twentieth century, this book focuses on key aspects of domestic history to explore the coalescence of a modern culture. Ethnic and racial diversity and the tensions it engendered emerge as central motifs. Although there has been a tendency in the historical literature to view the response to modernity in the twenties solely from the point of view of mainstream (i.e., native-born, white, Protestant, middle-class) America, the influences changing American society included the increasing heterogeneity of the culture. Thus The Modern Temper documents the experiences of African Americans and members of various ethnic groups as they participated in forging a modern culture. Another dominant theme is the erosion of community and personal autonomy in the face of an increasingly nationalized and organized society. The growth of corporate power, the developments reshaping politics, the transformation of work, and the emergence of a mass consumer culture dramatically reshaped American life. And finally, the changing values and behavior in sexual, religious, and other private realms contributed to the shaping of a more pluralistic culture. Together, these themes not only characterize the 1920s but also form the contours of modernity.

I

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE POWER

The 1920s have emerged as such a distinctive period in part because it was sandwiched between two major eras of reform, the progressive period and the New Deal. In comparison with what came before and after, the twenties seem an anomaly. Woodrow Wilson and Franklin D. Roosevelt enjoy major reputations as dynamic liberal leaders, while the chief executives of the 1920s fare less well. Noted primarily for the corruption scandals that marred his administration, Warren G. Harding delivered speeches that gave the impression of an army of pompous phrases moving over the landscape in search of an idea. Calvin Coolidge, whose taciturnity earned him the label Silent Cal, further contributed to the lackluster tone of politics. History has also been unkind to Herbert Hoover, whose capabilities were overshadowed by his difficulties in coping imaginatively with the Great Depression. Twenties politics seem not just stagnant but reactionary, a period in which many rejected reform and embraced big business and Babbittry.

Although the twenties did witness a reaction against social reform in a spirit of what Harding called the desire for normalcy, the decade is not as distinct from the reform eras that framed it as might first be supposed. Many of the key political issues of the decade—if not their resolution—were the same ones that permeated the major reform eras. In particular, Americans in the 1920s grappled with a pivotal and persistent question: Given the traditions of localism, democracy, and voluntarism, where should power reside in the complex, industrial, and bureaucratic society that America had become?

This chapter explores the eclipse of reform in the 1920s as part of a broader examination of the political and economic organization of American life. During the progressive era many reformers reacted against the extraordinary power the private sector, especially corporations, had acquired. They struggled with their own ambivalence about a strong state to define a broader role for public—i.e., government—power in protecting the general welfare from being submerged by special interests. Despite the persistence of some reformers, in the 1920s the enthusiasm for social justice waned, and the dilemma of the relative influence of the private sector versus the public sector was resolved largely in favor of the former. The decade saw an expansion of private influence which signaled the emergence of interest group politics as a major force in the American polity. At the same time, mounting hostility to federal intervention in the economy and the lives of its citizens reflected a renewed antipathy to government power which continues to shape public discourse in our own time.

THE PROGRESSIVE BACKGROUND

Progressivism has proved a morass for decades of historians trying to delineate its characteristics and supporters. Conflicting interpretations make the complexity and diversity of the movement evident, and at least one historian called into question the utility of the term itself, arguing instead for an obituary for the progressive movement. Most historians, however, have refused to bury progressivism. The middle-class social reformers, politicians, and intellectuals who were deeply engaged in reform efforts were convinced that they were part of a progressive movement. Its ethos grew out of the disorder that accompanied America’s industrialization, urbanization, and immigration. Swollen cities, with inadequate services and graft-ridden political machines, had resulted in urban chaos. Political corruption seemed to flourish at all levels, from city boss to U.S. senator. The extreme wealth of the new corporate elite contrasted shockingly with widespread poverty. The problems faced by the victims of industrialization—the children of the poor, and working-class men and women—began to attract an outraged middle class. Sympathy and guilt mingled with fear as class conflict in the form of industrial unrest emerged as an unsettling phenomenon. Even more disturbing was the growth of the Socialist Party in the early twentieth century. Alarmed, most of the middle class viewed this as a serious challenge to a social and political order they wanted to improve, not radically transform.

Although progressives offered a variety of analyses of the root of American problems, one of the pivotal themes of the era was the pernicious influence of special interests and private power. The trusts, a vague term that referred to monopolistic corporations, usually headed the list of problems facing the republic. They wielded not only extraordinary economic power but political power too, as muckrakers’ exposes of politicians in the pockets of corporations demonstrated. Political machines were another form of inappropriate private power, as were labor unions. At issue here was the belief that private, or special, interests could subvert the general, or public, interest. Above all, progressives envisioned a harmoniously functioning society in which the general interest would triumph.

Another important problem concerned the role of state power in protecting the general interest. Although it is an oversimplification to divide progressives into neat groups, it is possible to discern two major views of government power. One group, probably the largest, identified with Woodrow Wilson’s New Freedom, which called upon government action to protect the victims of industrialization, with the ideal of restoring equality and individual autonomy. This group also invoked government power to break down the worst of the trusts and promote competition. These progressives embraced governmental solutions, although they did so with the greatest ambivalence. Drawing upon a long tradition of hostility to government power, they worried that public power could be just as damaging to individual freedoms as private power.

Another element in progressivism, often associated with the New Nationalism of Theodore Roosevelt (1901-9), was far more accepting of the general trend toward organization and the consolidation of federal and state power. The nationalists felt that the benefits of scale and centralization could be the source of widespread prosperity. They had a strong belief in efficiency and experts. As Robert Wiebe has pointed out, many of the new middle class were themselves turning to more centralized, powerful voluntary associations to rationalize their professions and give them influence on public policy. As reformers, they sought to bring order to American society and adjust it to the exigencies of the modern world by promoting an activist state that would regulate corporations, direct the economy, and protect the interests of workers and consumers. Unlike the Wilsonians, they were far more sanguine about state power, viewing it as a necessary antidote to unharnessed private power.

Many progressive reforms indeed resulted in an expansion of government power and bureaucracy, but they also reflected the Wilsonian ambivalence toward state, especially federal, power. Often laws gave government agencies quite limited authority or inadequate enforcement procedures that considerably weakened their ability to regulate. Nonetheless, at the time progressives viewed their advances optimistically and pointed proudly to a wide range of legislation. Social justice or humanitarian laws spanned the range from milk codes, public health laws, workmen’s compensation, and child labor laws, including a federal child labor law. In the cities, good government reformers campaigned to break the power of the machines. Other political reforms were the direct election of senators, initiative, referendum, and recall, and the use of the secret ballot. Women’s suffrage also formed part of progressivism. Reformers touted all of these political innovations as vehicles for restoring democracy and limiting the ability of special interests to control politics. Finally, on the national level, Congress enacted numerous laws that at the time were promoted as progressive triumphs over corporate financial interests: in 1906, the Meat Inspection Act, the Pure Food and Drug Act, and the Hepburn Act, which regulated railroads; in 1913, the Federal Reserve Act to regulate banking, and the Sixteenth Amendment, which provided for a federal income tax. The 1914 Clayton Antitrust Act, which replaced the largely ineffective Sherman Antitrust Act of 1890, was also hailed as a progressive victory. With the exception of the income tax, all these measures set up commissions, staffed by presumably neutral experts who would determine social needs without damaging the basis of prosperity.

For decades, historians took progressivism at its word and depicted the legislation that emerged as part of the effort to restore democracy and control the trusts. Now it is evident that the coalition of groups that supported the era’s reforms did not always have the same agenda as self-described progressives. Revisionist historians have made it clear, for example, that much of the corporate legislation had the strong backing of some members of the business community who hoped to use the agency of the federal government for their own purposes. Urban and school reforms provide further evidence that progressivism was far more complex than its leaders’ democratic rhetoric would suggest. Business elites often embraced a city manager system and political redistricting as a route to a more efficient city that could serve their needs more adequately. Similarly, they supported the drive to centralize public education. All of these reforms tended to limit the influence of workers, African Americans, immigrants, and the poor, who in the older system had a greater personal identification with their local city government representatives and school board members.

The efforts to minimize the voting influence of ethnic groups and workers in the cities indicate a social control aspect of progressivism that was evident in other reform sentiment as well. Prohibition, which was more controversial among progressives than other measures, nonetheless had strong support from both urban and rural progressives, who viewed it as a means of improving individual lives and industrial productivity. But prohibition, which entailed the coercive use of law to control behavior, also had very strong nativistic underpinnings. Not all progressivism was nativistic, but as both prohibition and the urban political and educational reforms indicate, there was a strong undercurrent throughout the movement to use the law to control and assimilate immigrants to American Protestant morality and standards.

Not surprisingly, ethnic and working-class voters had ambivalent responses to progressive legislation. They tended to oppose the nativistic and elitist trends in the movement, but nonetheless in many cities they comprised an important core of support for reform, especially social justice laws such as factory or tenement legislation. Farmers also sometimes constituted part of the progressive movement, especially in their support for laws limiting corporate power, or those directly affecting their own interests. Thus, undergirding the progressive movement lay an unstable coalition—businessmen, farmers, labor, immigrants, and the middle class—each with a different agenda that reflected its own concerns. The rubric of a general interest that pervaded progressive rhetoric proved elusive.

The contradictory strains within progressivism evident in nativism, elitism, the differing agendas of reforms’ supporters, and diverging attitudes about government power also appeared in the way progressives responded to World War I. Many reformers were dismayed by the U.S. entry into the European conflict in 1917, although in the nationalistic climate of the time, relatively few voiced their opposition publicly. Some progressives, suspicious of the trusts, worried that the war would only serve the interests of corporate profiteers, while society paid in lives and money. Wilsonian progressives, always fearful of federal power, correctly anticipated that the war would unleash a nationalistic spirit which would undermine civil liberties and be inimical to reform. But other progressives, many in the Roosevelt New Nationalism camp, were far more optimistic about the potential of war for furthering reform. Seduced by the rhetoric of a war for democracy, they hoped that America’s participation in the war effort would be a means of bringing American democracy to the world. On the domestic front, they expected that the wartime emergency would cause the federal government to expand its power in behalf of reform.

In 1918, as the war proceeded, Congress passed a war tax, which tentatively seemed to point the way to the use of taxation to redistribute income. After a massive transportation breakdown, the government also assumed control over the railroads, which encouraged progressives who viewed this as the entering wedge of government planning of the economy. Railroad workers benefited from federal administration of their industry. Moreover, the government’s efforts to maintain price ceilings and control wages and hours of defense employees indicated the possibilities for government protection of working people.

But for the most part, war did not further the domestic reform agenda, in large measure because of the fear of extensive government power. This fear affected the operation of most of the war agencies set up to handle the problems of mobilization. Future President Herbert Hoover, as wartime food administrator, resisted coercing farmers or consumers and relied upon voluntarism to effect conservation and the production of food. The War Industries Board, the major agency charged with coordinating the production and distribution of war materiel, also had little coercive power. Instead, financier Bernard Baruch, its director after March 1918, used his personal influence and the threat of negative publicity to keep corporations in line with government need. This voluntaristic approach of wartime agencies led to a strong sense of government/business cooperation that tended to benefit the corporations. Economist John Kenneth Galbraith accurately described the war years as massive informal cooperation between government and organized private enterprise.

Thus World War I, whatever hopes progressives had for it, served primarily to promote the organization of corporate power and to link it more closely to cooperation with government. The ideas evident among corporate leaders who had supported some progressive reforms gained substantial ground in the war years. Increasingly, government, as it expanded its influence, served as an instrument to help rationalize businesses and as a mediator between conflicting interest groups. In the process, the progressive idea of the general interest got buried under the weight of special interest power.

THE FATE OF REFORM

The war not only fell far short of progressive expectations; it was also among the factors that extinguished the widespread support for reform. The war disillusioned many progressives. The violation of civil liberties was a serious blow to men and women committed to liberalism, and the coercive nationalistic spirit that encouraged a search for traitors challenged progressives’ belief in the rationality of human beings, as did ultimately the total war experience. Moreover, the way in which corporations seemed to benefit from war discouraged reformers who continued to mistrust special interests and insist that their power be curtailed. Finally, disappointment with the Peace of Paris, which did not meet with the lofty aspirations of Wilson’s Fourteen Points, made it clear that war had not accomplished any progressive international aims.

But despite the war’s undoubtedly negative impact on the reform spirit, when the conflict drew to a close in 1918 optimistic Reconstruction Plans were afloat everywhere, as reformers like Sherwood Eddy looked forward to the postwar period as a permanent and moral equivalent of the war; in a task infinitely harder and grander, the winning of a new world. The Catholic Church, for example, offered the Bishops’ Program of Social Reconstruction, an ambitious document that focused primarily on the protection of workers by promoting industrial democracy. Many other religious bodies, including the Federal Council of